The House of Many Sorrows
by sunshine and lollipops
Summary: An AU #Lizzington love story. The Blacklist set in the Jane Eyre universe.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note & Disclaimer: **As always, this is a work of fanfiction. Any familiar characters, plot lines, scenes, events, dialogue, etc. are all borrowed/shamelessly stolen from _The Blacklist_ and/or _Jane Eyre_ so that I can play in somebody else's universe…or universes in this case.

So anyway, hi! :) I'm super new to _The Blacklist_ fandom, having juuuuuust discovered this show in September-ish. But oh my god, that pilot, riiiiight? The Stewmaker. The Anslo Garrick episode! Red rebuilding the music box. Little Dembe (*sad face*). And like, everything else. Just love, love, love. It's my new favorite thing.

And _Jane Eyre_ is one of my oldest favorite things. So I was finishing up some other fanfic projects and wondering what I should do next, when this idea rushed into my head and just would _not_ let go. I'm sure I'm not the only one who feels some parallels between Mr. Rochester/Jane and Red/Lizzie. If only for all the angst and drama…

Canon-wise, whatever. If they finish with a plausible explanation for the connection between Red and Lizzie, I'll be happy. I'm used to having my ships sink (any other Jorah/Daenerys fans around these parts?)…that's why we have fanfiction :)

I was thinking I should maybe wait until after New Year's to start posting this, since my updates will probably be sporadic until after the holidays. But I'm too excited about this project to keep it in a drawer for a month, so…sorry/not sorry. For my main fanfic projects, I usually try to post a chapter a week but this will likely be more of a biweekly (or a little longer) schedule.

If all goes according to plan, this will be novel length. Brief summary: _The Blacklist_ love story (ahem #Lizzington) set in the _Jane Eyre_ universe, but heavily influenced by both. Basically, I'm keeping the things I like from both stories and ditching the rest.

Fair warning, the characters won't map exactly. For instance, Agnes becomes Agnès, the little French girl (and, in this story, she's not Elizabeth's biological daughter) and I've made Sam's last name "Keen" instead of Tom (who will appear as Jacob Phelps only and not really in a favorable light, tbh). Everyone's been aged down by about ten years (so Lizzie's in her early 20s and Red is early 40s).

Also…So. Much. Angst. You should know, angst and slow burn romances are kinda my thing. I adore tragedy and emotional scenes (my Twitter handle is ladymelodrama for a reason) so that's happening. But just know that I don't do unhappy endings. Promise. Xo

Rated T for now but subject to change if the mood strikes. Okay, *deep breath* here we go…

 **Chapter One:**

 _Lancashire, England, 1845_

I don't know what I expect of my 21st birthday.

Not much, if I'm being honest. I assume it will pass, as all the others have, without notice, without fanfare whatsoever, save a throwaway thought that flickers in and out of my consciousness as I open my eyes this morning, forcing myself away from the same dark dreams that plague my mind every night, and wake in the small, cramped, cold bedroom that I share with two of the other young teachers of Lowood School.

 _Today's your birthday, Elizabeth_ , the thought says bluntly. There's nothing of substance in the thought—no happiness, no cheer, no feeling. It's a fact. A recitation. No more than that.

I suppose I might scribble a few notes about it in my sketchbook after evening classes. I use the sketchbook as a diary sometimes (although less and less with each passing year) and it seems natural to mark the day somehow. Yet, I've grown so used to my birthday being just another dreary, grey day, one of the multitude that I've passed since I first came to Lowood School however many years ago…so I'm not sure that I will mention it at all.

No, the only thing that occupies my thoughts this morning is that I'm cold. So very cold. I pull the thin quilt up around my shoulders, hoping to draw a little warmth from its threadbare fabric but there's little to be found. A northerly wind lashes against the old stone walls fiercely. The coal we're allowed is paltry and the sad, smoldering fire went out early in the night. The wash basins are iced over, as always, and there's white frost painting up the window panes.

November is the cruelest month, for it's the beginning of winter and, at Lowood, winter lasts the whole year round.

I can't really remember the last time I felt warm. It's been a decade, at least. I have memories of warmth but they're all from ages ago, before my Uncle Sam died. But not too far back, as my earliest memories are dark with shadows and cloaked with mysteries that I've never been able to solve—and sometimes, can't summon the courage to try.

 _A fire, a locked door, a girl with blonde hair…_

But there are a few happy memories too—thanks to Uncle Sam. I can recall sitting beside a crackling, cheery fireplace as my uncle whittled out the inside of a piece of basswood, carving up the figure of a rabbit for me. He was so good with his hands, his knife cutting into the wood expertly, shaping a dark coat of fur that was nearly soft to touch.

My uncle was a sailor in his youth, traveling all around the world, seeing all sorts of places, learning all sorts of things. But he always told me that his favorite place in the whole world was sitting by a fire and carving up a little figurine.

"There you go, butterbean," he said when he was finished, handing the rabbit over into my willing, six-year-old hands. When he smiled, my uncle's laugh lines always creased warmly, with the firelight softening his otherwise rugged and weather-beaten features.

Even when he was sick and they brought me in to say goodbye, he managed one last, soft smile, saying, "Don't cry, Elizabeth. Don't ever let them see you cry."

When he died, I refused to look in the casket. I knew he'd take his smile with him and I didn't want to see what was left behind.

At the funeral, I stayed by the windows, half-hidden by mauve-colored drapes, running my fingers over that wooden rabbit in my hand and trying as hard as I could not to cry. Two tears fell on the rabbit's basswood fur, nonetheless.

But I didn't let them see me cry. Not my cousins, who would have told me I had no right to mourn their father. Nor my aunt, my uncle's wife, who had never said a kind word to me, not one, from the moment Uncle Sam brought me into his house at Gateshead and told her that I was his niece and would henceforth be raised as one of their children.

"But who is she, Sam?" I heard my aunt whisper in the hallway, not believing the family connection for a single moment, demanding to know why her husband had brought a foundling child into their household.

"That's not for you to know," my uncle replied, too easily dismissing her question. I was still a very young child, but even I heard the threat in his gravelly voice as he continued, "And don't ever ask me again."

My uncle's wife, Mrs. Keen, loved her husband. But she didn't love me. We were oil and water from the first.

 _You were born bad, Elizabeth, and you will die bad_. These words are scratched into my soul. Whether she spoke them because she had some vague knowledge of my true origins or not, I cannot say. Perhaps it was just the simple clash of our natural personalities and had nothing to do with the rest of it. Whatever her reasons, she certainly didn't share them with me.

Soon after my uncle died, Mrs. Keen decided that she could not have me in her house a moment longer and sent a letter to Mrs. Diane Fowler, the matron and mistress of Lowood Institution for Poor and Orphan Girls.

The old woman, with her silver hair and high-collared black frock, arrived within a fortnight.

"You will find the child to be impulsive, wild and of a passionate nature, Mrs. Fowler," Mrs. Keen threw up her hands with dismay and did not mince her words, despite the fact that I stood nearby. She continued, "She was well loved by my poor, dead husband, but she's no true relation to either us—neither his family, nor mine. He was always a foolishly sentimental man about the girl. He told me that he'd made a promise to someone to look after her but I'm not sure I believe it. With that dark hair and those dark eyes, she's barely better than a gypsy child. You'll see, Mrs. Fowler. There's something unnatural about Elizabeth…"

"Girl, come here," Mrs. Fowler had beckoned me close. I hesitated before taking a cautious step towards the old woman. Her wrinkled face had none of the laugh lines that had graced my uncle's. Her lines had been fashioned by sneers and frowns, one of which she turned on me, scowling deeply, "Do you know where the wicked go after death?"

"They go to hell, ma'am," I answered quietly.

"And what is hell? Can you tell me that?" she continued.

I shifted on my feet, uncomfortable with the line of questioning. Still, I knew the answer. All children do. I said, "A pit of fire."

"Should you like to fall into that pit, and to be burning there forever?"

"No, ma'am."

"And what should you do to avoid such a fate?" She was being facetious. I knew what I should say, but there was something in Mrs. Fowler's hard eyes and in the way Aunt Keen twitched her head and cocked her eyebrow, waiting for my response.

"I should keep well and not fall ill," I stated flatly, unable to resist the clever answer that leapt to my tongue first, borne of some stubborn streak of defiance that I've never been able to rein in, even back then, when I was barely nine-years-old.

I knew why Mrs. Fowler was sent for. She had come to take me away from Gateshead. She was there to take me from my home. I should have been afraid, but I wasn't. With my uncle's death, Gateshead was no home. It was a tomb.

My aunt screeched her predictable, "You see? Do you _see_ this unnatural child?" while Mrs. Fowler's frown turned a few shades darker. She took the carved rabbit from me that very moment. She reached out and snatched it from my hands, her fingernails scraping at my skin in her haste, leaving scratches on my hands.

I haven't seen the rabbit since.

* * *

Now, eleven years later, I rise and dress, breaking the ice in the wash basin and grimacing as I force my hands into the cold water. I braid my long, dark brown hair to one side and then go down to the school rooms to begin my day.

I have been both pupil and teacher here. There's little difference, except I now sit at the teacher's table in the mess hall and have to pretend that Mrs. Fowler's lessons are not only gospel, but _good_. I don't pretend. I'm not that accomplished as an actress. I only say nothing at all. For in silence, there's protection. This is a lesson I learned years ago, during the first lonely years in this bleak place, when they starved us and beat us and said it was God's work.

On my 21st birthday, I teach my assigned classes to the girls as usual—art, drawing and French. I teach them how to draw garden flowers and country landscapes, saving the more intricate and fantastical images that my fingers itch to draw for the hidden pages of my sketchbook…if I even dare include them there.

Mrs. Fowler has no patience for fantasy and she has burned my drawings many times before. I have no interest in her burning any more.

So I keep the girls' lessons traditional and sedate…as are we all, as am I. Perfectly behaved, dressed in grey (for it has become my color), ready to live out each day from now until the end of my days in the same cold, quiet manner that defines the many, unhappy residents of Lowood Institute.

But then, at lunch, the most unexpected thing happens…

"Elizabeth Keen?" Mrs. Fowler's unexpected use of my given name rattles the entire mess hall. We are referred to most often by our surnames only. As in, "Keen, recite your daily verses," or "Keen, submit to the consequences of your actions with a joyous heart."

Forks and spoons scrape against wooden bowls and the odd ceramic plate, as the girls' bonnets all swivel to the instructors' table, where the other teachers look at me as well, in anticipation.

What have I done this time? I rack my brain for some offense, some perceived crime, but come up empty. For years, I've been careful to avoid the more passionate nature that I seemed destined for as a child. Through diligence and silence, I have become a model pupil, teacher and resident of the school. Even Diane Fowler has remarked upon the change in my nature, heralding it as the most successful transformation she has ever had the _pleasure_ to facilitate.

At the word pleasure, I always bite back the less genteel words primed on my tongue—an action which only proves her words true, I suppose.

But now, in the mess hall, Mrs. Fowler has deigned us with her uncommon presence (she rarely appears in this hall unless an hours-long lecture is required for the succor of our immortal souls) and she is calling my name. When I glance up with the others, I find her standing at the head of the table, staring at me with the same furious gaze that was a mainstay of her daily interactions with me during those first years, when nothing I did and nothing I said was good enough. To see such a familiar glance again is unnerving. I wouldn't be surprised to see dragon fire snort out of her flaring nostrils. My mere existence, once again, seems to be the very heart of the problem.

 _You were born bad, Elizabeth, and you will die bad._ My aunt's cruel words always rush to taunt me at the slightest provocation.

Mrs. Fowler holds a sealed letter in her right hand, and there is an unfamiliar man standing beside her, dressed in fine clothes beneath a long, traveling coat. He's tall, strongly built and has skin as dark as chocolate.

 _Or so I imagine,_ I think to myself ruefully, unable to recall the last time I've seen or tasted a piece of chocolate. Ten years? More?

"Elizabeth Keen, you will come to my office at once," Mrs. Fowler growls the words, spinning on her heel and returning from whence she came, without waiting for my response. The unfamiliar man beside her catches my eye and nods just once in my direction, before following the school's mistress.

I set the spoon in my hand down into the half-full bowl of thin, lukewarm broth and push back my chair. The chair scrapes against the cold, stone floor with the echo of a dungeon door closing. Impulsively, I chance one more spoonful before I follow. Although the broth isn't much, with its uneven lumps of vegetables and barely two bites of meat, it's dinner, and I'm sorry to leave it. As I rise, I sigh very softly, so none can hear, knowing I will have nothing more until breakfast the next morning.

 _Happy birthday, indeed._

The man with dark skin holds the door open for me as I enter Mrs. Fowler's office.

"Thank you," I murmur, absently.

"You're welcome, Elizabeth," he answers, his accent rich and foreign. And the way he says my name…this isn't the first time those syllables have rolled off his tongue.

Diane Fowler is still scowling as I enter. She remains standing while she waves her free hand at one of the chairs in her office. I take the offered seat, fearing her wrath if I don't. I've known her long enough to know that she's beyond angry. Her face is contorted with suppressed rage. And, for whatever reason, I'm at the center of it.

"Your aunt warned me about you," she begins, seething. "I should have listened. All this time, I thought you'd changed and thrown off those traits that made you such an unbearable, willful child—"

"Mrs. Fowler, I—"

"I'm not finished!" she exclaims. "Who do you think you are, Miss Keen? How _dare_ you?"

"I really have no idea what you're talking about…," I reply, honestly, completely unaware of where all this is coming from. I take no joy in whatever has brought her to this state, whether I want to or not. My words are true. I have _absolutely_ no idea what's going on.

"That's enough, Mrs. Fowler," the gentleman behind me instructs softly, giving curt commands. "Give her the letter and we will be on our way."

I turn towards the stranger, looking for answers. But he only nods once more, his lips curving into a small but encouraging smile.

 _What is going on?_

"What letter?" I manage but Mrs. Fowler has fallen silent, her rage melting away into something else. Something like fear. Something like secrets. I hate secrets.

I insist on an answer, "What letter, Diane?"

Using her given name procures the reaction I expect. Her head snaps up, chin jutting out defiantly, as before. She thrusts the sealed letter in her hand forward, forcing it into my hands, "There. Take it. Just as Mr. Zuma here"—she nods at the gentlemen behind me—"intends to take all the money that your aunt has sent the school for your care, as if feeding and clothing you for the last eleven years should have been our _pleasure._ "

"What does that mean?" I ask, still not understanding any of this. I slip my finger under the wax seal of the letter and break it. The address is written in a man's strong but formal hand— _Elizabeth Jane Keen, Lowood Institute, Lancashire._

"It means that you are leaving us, Miss Keen," Mrs. Fowler continues, her voice pinched and mocking. She assumes that I'm part of this plot, whatever it is, and thinks I'm playing a part. Out of spite, she reveals the rest in the same tone, "It appears that you have a benefactor who was only recently made aware of your presence here. Or so he says. So his man, Dembe Zuma, says. And I am being blackmailed, Miss Keen. Yes, blackmailed. As if I'm some common criminal instead of a woman who has given her _life_ over to you miscreants and bastard children. I am to release you to this valet, together with every dime that was spent on your tuition and board. And if that isn't enough, I've been instructed to hand over five hundred pounds more, for _your_ trouble. Oh, there's a special place in hell for a girl who would play a religious house of care and education so ill—"

"Mrs. Fowler, let me be clear, this is the very _first_ I've ever heard of this benefactor. And I do not know this man," I answer firmly, gesturing at the man behind me, with a hint of that old tone that always rubbed Aunt Keen the wrong way. I glance at Dembe with an expression that begs him to confirm it.

"Elizabeth was unaware that I would be coming today, Mrs. Fowler. She has never met my employer," he says simply. But he's unwilling to waste time on further explanations, turning his attention away from my mistress and saying to me, "Come, Elizabeth, gather your things. We have a long drive to Thornfield Hall."

"Thornfield Hall?" Diane gives a laugh, devoid of all humor. "So this is Raymond Reddington's scheme?"

 _Who is Raymond Reddington?_ I wonder, having never heard the name in my life. My eyes drop to the words filling the missive.

Dembe doesn't confirm or deny the man's involvement. He's finished talking with the old woman. His attention is on me only. But I'm distracted by the contents of the letter that I now hold in my hand.

 _Dear Elizabeth,_

 _I know you have been advertising for the position of governess in an attempt to escape your present circumstances. If you are interested, I have a young ward who is in need of your skill and talent. She is a kind child, but French, with all that implies. Her name is Agnès._

 _The salary is £30 pounds per annum, in addition to room and board._

 _Forgive me. I've been abroad for some time. Had I known that Sam had passed away, I would have sent for you much sooner._

 _Yours,_

 _R. Reddington_

It's the final line, the one about my uncle, that resonates. Although, yes, I have been advertising and yes, my reasons are to escape my present circumstances (however, I certainly didn't put that in the advertisement)—it's seems so odd that this man, who I don't know and have never met, should know these things about me.

And then the note about Sam. Did he know my uncle? Did they know each other? Does he know me? And how?

I've been taught not to do impulsive things. To act with decorum, rationality and prudence, in all things. But Mrs. Fowler's unpleasant sneer and the promise in her eyes that I will pay for this strange and unwelcome turn of events makes my choice clear, despite all the unknowns swirling around me.

"I don't know what connection exists between you and Lord Reddington, Miss Keen. That man's pockets run deep but his reputation makes him unwelcome at any _respectable_ table. Thornfield Hall is not a destination for a young woman whose origins and birth are already shrouded in the shadows of some patched up scandal. I would hope we've taught you better than to—"

I ignore her, as she's no longer my employer, my mistress or anything to me at all. Just an old woman who has made a life's study of unkindness and the worst bits of religious fervor. Before she's finished speaking, I nod to Dembe, slowly, absently, my answer forming without thought, "I'll just be a few minutes."

Considering my few possessions, it might be less than that. Which reminds me…

"Thank you, Diane," I answer, while folding Mr. Reddington's letter along its creases and slipping it in the side pocket of my skirt. I reach out and take the basswood rabbit figurine that is perched on her desk, _my_ rabbit figurine, and hold it tightly in my hand. My tone is heavy with irony as I mention, "I'll never forget your kindness."

And then, without waiting for a reply, I leave that miserable woman's office for the very last time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note & Disclaimer: **Oh look at me, updating again way sooner than expected. But I'm assuming you guys don't mind? ;) Thanks for the faves/comments! Xo

 **Chapter Two:**

The carriage ride to Thornfield Hall is long. Twilight falls quickly and soon, my view outside the carriage window is all dark shadows and black night. But the moors that we travel through are bathed in silver moonlight and I can pick out wind-swept hills, humps of black rock under blankets of autumn-killed heather. The horizon is jagged against the starry sky, with hills and valleys resembling crouching monsters in the far distance.

As soon as the carriage rattled past the iron gates of Lowood, I found my chest tightening a little, having cast off my life in a matter of a few, heady moments, based on a couple lines in a stranger's letter. Maybe Diane Fowler was right—perhaps I had jumped from the frying pan into the fire?

Now, hours later, the tightness remains. My gloved hands fidget in the folds of my skirt, before drifting up to the loose ends of my dark brown hair. I'm far too anxious to sleep, wondering, with every turn of the carriage wheels, if I've made a grave mistake. I'm headed to a destination I don't know, with nothing more than that note to guide me forward.

And who is this stranger to me? Who _is_ Raymond Reddington?

 _Forgive me…_ I reread his letter a dozen times before the sun set and the interior of the carriage went as dark as a pit in the ground. That line—I've never heard this man's voice but I somehow hear him in my head, apologizing, as if the apology is part of a sacrament. But why should he apologize to me?

I tighten my grip on the letter, stressing its creases: _Who are you?_

My traveling companion, Dembe Zuma, has offered nothing to assuage my curiosity. He's as silent as a monk at prayer, his reticence rivalling the best of them. I wish I could stay silent. I wish I truly felt as fearless as I pretended to be in Diane Fowler's office this afternoon, casting off my entire life with a mere shrug.

 _Hush, Elizabeth, or you'll give yourself away._ If I ask questions, I worry the tremors in my voice will betray all—my true emotions, my fears, my uncertainty, my doubts…

But I can't stay silent. And as soon as the opportunity presents itself, I take it. Recklessly.

Dembe delays our journey only briefly, stopping to water the horses at a moonlit, trickling stream somewhere in the middle of the hill country. I exit the carriage, just to stretch my legs, and find myself standing beneath a navy-blue tapestry of moon and stars, on a white gravel road headed north, twisting and winding through the dark moors, like a fairy path leading to the hall of a mountain king.

 _Romantic fancy is the food of fools…_ I hear Diane Fowler's disapproving voice in my head again. I fear her voice will echo there for some time.

The air is chilly, promising snow in the night. For now, there is nothing. Just wisps of clouds over the silver moon and a tense stillness over the frosted moors. I hold my shawl tight around my shoulders and summon the nerve to speak.

"Your employer is Raymond Reddington?" I ask Dembe, as I join him by the horses. He's stroking the long face of the black mare with smooth swaths, before moving over the crest and down the animal's shoulders. He reaches into a cloth bag that he carries and brings out a green apple, which the mare takes gladly. Her compatriot, a brown chestnut, soon raises her head from the cold water of the stream and nuzzles at Dembe's shoulder, asking for the same.

"Yes," he answers my question simply. Again, he offers no elaboration. I've known him for only a few hours but Dembe strikes me as a man who keeps much to himself. Still, I press a little, having no other choice. I'm both afraid and disorientated, wondering if my rash shock of courage this afternoon will lead me to ruin.

"Who is he?" I wonder, nearly timidly. Mrs. Fowler had made him sound powerful…but dangerous too. And the letter in my pocket intimated some sort of connection between us that I was woefully unaware of.

I know so little about my past, in any case. But I have no doubt that Diane Fowler is right in at least one regard—my origins are not the polite, easy kind.

I'm an orphan and I don't think I was born in England. I remember a ship, the taste of salt in the air, and the rocking of unsettled seas. I was very young and I don't know where we were going or where we had come from. Uncle Sam was there. He'd been there since I could remember. Well, nearly. He always said my mother and father died shortly after I was born. But that's all I know. Whenever I asked for more, my uncle would say, "That's all there is to tell, butterbean."

 _A fire, a locked door, a girl with blonde hair…_ my dreams say differently.

Dembe is likewise cryptic, "Mr. Reddington is the master of Thornfield Hall."

"Did he know my uncle—Sam Keen?"

The horses finish with their apples, crunching the last of the tart fruit around their large molars, and Dembe grabs their bridles gently, clucking his tongue to lead them back to the carriage yoke. They follow him, with docile, trusting steps. He neglects to answer my question.

"Get back in the carriage, miss," he says instead, with a tone that says my questions are not going to be answered. At least, not here. Not now. He adds, "We still have a long way to go."

For a moment, I consider another option. I could refuse to get in the carriage until he tells me what I want to know—like a petulant child, stubborn and headstrong.

 _You see, we were right about you all along…_ now both Mrs. Keen and Mrs. Fowler's voices join together in my head. But I disappoint them once again, or the specters of them that live in my head anyway. I abandon the idea almost immediately.

Because, instinctively, I know it won't work. Dembe doesn't appear to be a man easily swayed or pulled from his directive. Besides, it's freezing and he's as likely to bend to my will as he is to leave me stranded in the wilderness. I swallow back my own disappointment, in myself, in the non-answers I've received, and pull the wool shawl even closer around me as I walk the short distance back to the carriage.

I climb into the carriage, my mind swirling with the possibilities, and with musings of things I thought I'd left behind years ago—my parents, what happened to them, the bleak but blurred images that haunt my dreams every night…the raised scar on my left wrist that I stroke whenever I'm nervous.

As I do now. I take my seat in the back of the carriage, noting the weight change as Dembe climbs to his perch outside, in the driver's seat. I settle back against the maroon, velvet-trimmed cushions, my eyes drifting out the window to the night-cloaked country landscape once more. My right hand goes to my left wrist, feeling the ruined skin and tracing the familiar scar lines up and down.

It helps, as always. It's the reminder of something I can't remember. But something I must have survived. And in survival, there's hope, isn't there? Didn't someone say that to me once a long time ago?

 _There's always hope._

The late hour and the events of the day finally catch up with me and I fall asleep soon after. This time, at least, I don't dream. 

* * *

It's after midnight when we arrive at Thornfield Hall.

I'm awakened by the sound of Dembe reining in the horses, using a West African command that falls off his lips softly and musically. It's followed by another shift of weight and then the whine of hinges as he opens the carriage door for me. I lift my head away from the velvet cushions, blinking away the sleep in my tired eyes.

I take a breath, the tightness in my chest returning with a vengeance.

As I step out of the carriage onto cobblestones, I look up. The crisp, clear night of hours prior is no more. It's still cold, but the moon and stars are now hidden behind thick cloud cover. Snow is falling, very lightly. I feel little flakes melt against my bare cheek and eyelashes. There's a bruised violet color to the underside of the night sky and the stone battlements of Thornfield Hall are only vaguely visible, disappearing as shadow giants far above me.

But the house is massive…and old. I can tell, just by the masonry work and the size of the Gothic-styled front door, with its iron accents and thick hardwood planks, set upon the raised dais of a set of cut granite steps.

The door floods with soft, orange light as a lantern appears in its archway. The light spills across the cobblestones to where I'm descending from the interior of the carriage, my small carpetbag of pitiful possessions in tow. Dembe's hand steadies mine as I descend the two steps, my mind conjuring up what Thornfield Hall must look like in daylight.

Even in the pitch dark of night, I know I've arrived at a manor house that's more castle than squire's hall. Mr. Reddington must be a wealthy man, indeed.

Dembe's hand releases mine as soon as I find my footing on the cobblestones. He tends to the horses, running his hand down the flanks of the black mare as he moves to lead them to the stables. As he walks away, he offers me only,

"Mr. Kaplan will show you to your chambers." Dembe gestures up towards the tall, straight figure holding the lantern. I can't see the figure clearly, as the light hides their features almost as well as it illuminates Dembe and I, standing down in the circular drive. Whoever Mr. Kaplan is, he remains at the top of the granite steps, waiting, I assume, for me.

I hesitate, swallowing hard in the darkness. Dembe sees the hesitation but gives me an encouraging, if patient nod.

And I've come this far…

As Dembe leads the carriage away, I lift the hem of my skirt by half an inch and walk up the wide staircase, approaching the dais at the foot of the front door. I shade my sight from the intense glow of the lantern, and muster a smile—one I hope is sincere enough—to meet Mr. Kaplan.

"Miss Keen, we'd quite given up on you," comes a voice in the darkness. It's rough and weather-worn, short and punctuated in its business-like manner, but also…unmistakably feminine.

"Oh!" I say, surprised, as I finally see the person holding the light. From Dembe's comment, I expect a man and it shows. My expression changes and I apologize quickly, "I'm sorry. I thought Dembe called you _Mr._ Kaplan—I must have misheard."

"No, dearie, you heard him right," the tall woman with steel grey hair purses her lips, slightly amused. The corner of her mouth curls in a half-smirk, "The staff consider me to be a bit of a battle-axe and it's an old joke."

She extends her hand, in the fashion of a tradesman. I'm caught off guard, by her manner, by everything that's happened over the course of the day and half the night, but I retain enough control of my faculties to respond. Raising my hand, I use my teeth to help strip off the glove and then extend my hand to take hers.

My hand feels cold against hers, skin chilled after the long journey in the frigid night.

The smirk fades away quickly, replaced by a facts-and-figures expression that sizes me up in a glance. She offers, "I'm Kate Kaplan, the housekeeper."

"I'm Elizabeth Keen," I reply, but there's really no need. Like Dembe, this woman knows who I am. That's obvious. I'm hopeful that she'll be more forthcoming with explanations. I suppose I'll find out soon enough.

"I know," the housekeeper confirms, as if she's known forever. The notes in her voice betray nothing, she's neither unkind nor particularly friendly. Considering the late hour, I wonder if she'd rather be sleeping.

Spits of snow swirl around us, flickering under the lantern light. The housekeeper sends a slight glower at the weather and the dark clouds above, before waving me inside the house. "Welcome to Thornfield Hall."

As I cross the threshold into the interior of the old house, I hear an unearthly howl that I blame on the cold winds battering at the stone battlements far above. The sound is eerie and haunting. Almost like a woman's wailing, as it dies away into nothingness.

Still, it curdles my blood and I have to suppress another shiver, this one borne not only of cold, as I follow the housekeeper inside.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Happy new year! Also, time for an update :)

 **Chapter Three:**

I will meet Agnès Dechambeau, the little French girl, in the morning.

As she leads me to one of the east wing bedrooms, Mr. Kaplan or Mrs. Kaplan, or whatever her true name is, says there's no reason to wake the child at such an ungodly hour. I agree, of course. Introductions can certainly wait…although there's one introduction I've been anxious about since the hour I left Lowood, since the very moment Diane Fowler passed me that letter. My curiosity is only piqued further now, walking through the quiet halls of his grand house.

I wonder if I must wait to meet him as well.

"Is Mr. Reddington at home?" I try to hold my tongue but can't help myself, asking the question that burns in my mind, feeling again that same twist in the pit of my stomach. I'm anxious, afraid and intrigued, all at the same time. The man's very name seems to hold a promise. Of what, I have no idea. But speaking it aloud seems both strange and yet, familiar, even though until today (or yesterday, rather) I've never heard it spoken.

 _Forgive me…_ the letter had said. And I want to know why.

I'm hoping for answers but Mr. Kaplan is already shaking her head, sighing just a little, in the manner of a woman used to cleaning up after her employer. She leads me up a small, narrow staircase to a line of empty rooms, with outward facing windows running the length of the opposite side. In daylight, this hall would be flooded with natural light. But now, in the hours after midnight, it's dark and full of shadows.

"I'm afraid that Mr. Reddington had business to attend to in London," she answers, throwing the words over her shoulder. "He'll return when that business is concluded. In the meantime, he left instructions that you were expected and that you should commence your duties upon arrival. However, I believe tomorrow morning shall suffice, in that regard."

"Yes, I'm looking forward to getting started with Agnès," I say, belatedly remembering that this is a moment of first impression. Mr. Kaplan appears to be my supervisor and I'm to be governess here. Does she know that I've never served as a governess before? Does she know that my only prior experience is teaching classes at Lowood?

Perhaps that would recommend me more, if I hadn't been an orphan pupil there first.

I have often imagined how I would act as I accepted my first post as a governess. I remember promising myself I would be calm and confident when I finally met my employer, looking them in the eye, speaking in a strong and steady voice, our brief conversation displaying that I could be witty but not self-indulgent, my gaze turning simultaneously firm but kind when I was introduced to the children I would be entrusted to educate.

Oh, I don't know why I bothered imagining anything. All of my former plans unraveled as soon as Diane Fowler handed Mr. Reddington's letter into my hands. My confidence fled far from me as soon as Dembe drove us past the gates of Lowood. And now I'm not sure when, if ever, I will recover it.

"Agnès is a sweet-tempered girl," Mr. Kaplan remarks in a flat, non-descript tone, indicating that perhaps a sweet temper doesn't really matter to her. She continues, "She doesn't take after her mother, that's for sure."

"Does her mother live here, at Thornfield?" I ask, suddenly realizing that I know almost nothing about the little girl. I know her name and that she's a ward of Mr. Reddington, no more.

"Her mother's dead," Mr. Kaplan replies, her tone even flatter than before, if that's possible. With her free hand, she reaches into the deep pockets of the house coat she wears. She pulls out a set of brass and iron keys, which rattle and jingle against each other, the soft metallic noises echoing down the long hall. She stops short at the third door from the staircase and hands me the lantern. I take it.

As she finds the correct key, she spares another glance on me, again, seeming to size me up, "Do you speak French, Miss Keen?"

" _Mais oui_ ," I answer, automatically. I speak a little Russian too, though I honestly don't know where I picked it up. I assume Uncle Sam must have taught me a few phrases—he had traveled all over the world.

He told me he once snuck into the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg with a friend of his while they waited to ship out again. They shared three bottles of cheap vodka with a few Cossacks, smoked cigars and played cards until dawn. One of the Cossacks was too brazen, wagering his cabin on the Volga when he ran out of rubles. He lost the wager to my uncle's friend. Uncle Sam always laughed, his eyes creasing into those deep smile lines, whenever he recounted that story.

"Good," Mr. Kaplan mentions. "It'll be good to have another person in the house who understands her. Reddington speaks the language almost as well as if he was born in Marseilles but he's gone so often that I'm left trying to make out her _bon mots_ by myself _._ It's not easy for a Yorkshire woman, let me tell you."

She turns the key in the lock and opens the bedroom door. Small, gentle flames are crackling in the corner fireplace—the fire must have been stoked earlier in the night, in anticipation of my arrival. I can't remember the last time I had a fire in my bedroom. Or one that lasted beyond the hour of midnight, anyway. I'm still chilled from the carriage ride…and the decade of bitter cold years before. But this room is warm and soft, despite its unfamiliarity, and the bed calls to me.

"I have my references in my bag," I say, as she uses a long stem to take flame from the lantern and light a short, beeswax candle for my use. I offer, "I can get them for you if you like?"

"They'll keep," she replies, blowing out the stem and throwing it in the fireplace. She moves to the door, leaving me to undress and sleep. She adds cryptically, always so cryptically, "Besides, you've already presented me with the only reference required."

"How's that?"

"You're Elizabeth Keen, dearie." 

* * *

My dreams catch up with me. Of course they do. I haven't been able to escape them for as long as I can remember. It's an echo—an echo of a wisp of memory that's lost to me forever, I think.

 _A fire, a locked door, a girl with blonde hair…_

In the dream, I can hear the lock click over and I can feel the flames lick at my hands as I start digging at the bottom of the door frame, grey smoke crawling in from the outside. The girl with blonde hair sits beside me, knees brought up to her chest, crying. She's scared of the fire. So am I. But I know I have to get out. The flames burn my skin, feeding off my wrist as I pull back, burned. The fire is always ice cold in my dreams. Still, it burns.

In the dream I close my eyes tightly, not wanting to see anymore. Soon after, I wake up rattled, as always.

It's not every night, but the dream haunts me enough that I dread sleeping sometimes. So many years have passed without an explanation that I've almost given up on knowing if the dream is a shadow of some buried memory or a trick of my imagination.

There must have been a fire, somewhere, sometime. The scars on my wrist are real enough. But when and where I got them is unknown to me. Uncle Sam swore to me that he didn't know and I believed him. I had to believe him. Otherwise, he was lying to me and I just…refused to believe that.

When I was eight, I asked him if I had blonde hair when I was born. He said it was dark for as long as he had known me.

"Dark as a raven's wing, Elizabeth," he would pat my head affectionately on his way out, adding that he had work to do in his office, and I knew he was done answering questions.

Over the years, I've learned to live with these dreams—and to bury them as deep as the lost memory they spring from. And only once in a great while do I wake up in that same cold sweat and with that numbing, terrible fear that used to plague me as a little girl, where I'd call out for a mother I never knew and reach for someone, _anyone_ in the darkness of my bedroom at Gateshead, pulling my hands back from the darkness, shivering and alone.

There's a lingering hint of that fear and dread when I wake this morning, beneath quilts I don't recognize and in a bed that's not my own. But the fear and dread quickly vanish in exchange for another, vaguer feeling—confusion, for the span of at least half a minute, as I presently don't know where I am.

 _You're at Thornfield Hall—the house of Raymond Reddington,_ the memory of the night before, the carriage ride, Dembe, Mr. Kaplan, it all sharpens quickly as sleep fades away, taking those cruel dreams with it.

 _Good riddance._ I breathe with relief, throwing back the covers, anxious to shake them off and begin the new day, with whatever strangeness it may bring. It's early and a frosty dawn is upon the world. But the snow must have moved in the night for the skies are clear and the morning sun filters through the windows in the bedroom with little to impede its rays.

There had been one window in my bedroom at Lowood, and it was boarded up, for the glass had broken in a windstorm and Diane Fowler would not spare the expense of having it replaced. The windows here are grand things, with panes as tall as me. I grab my shawl from the foot of the bed and throw it around my shoulders before crossing the cold floor to open the drapes to full sunlight.

The bedchamber is illuminated brightly. I look around, taking in my surroundings. The room is three times the size of the one at Lowood and the furniture, though built in an older, more Gothic style than I've seen either at the school or at Gateshead, is of fine quality, all black walnut and dark mahogany.

There is a painting on the wall, of a ship being tossed about in a blue-green ocean. The surf breaks upon its hull, sending up a spray as high as the mast. And the storm clouds above are dark and heavy on one side of the canvas, bright but chilled on the other. It depicts the _Storm on the Sea of Galilee_ —before Christ walks across the water to calm the wild winds.

I've seen this painting before, hanging in my uncle's house. It can't be a coincidence, can it? Now I stare at its familiar colors and brushstrokes, reaching out to touch the canvas briefly. I muse to myself, for perhaps the hundredth time in a day and a half: _Who is Raymond Reddington?_

 _And what does he have to do with me?_

I pull my hand back from the painting slowly, with a small frown on my face. I haven't been at Thornfield even twelve hours, but I feel the presence of secrets in this house.

I have lived my life with secrets hovering just out of reach, as if the truth were balanced on a knife blade. I've been taught to ignore secrets—one slip of the wrist and everything would fall to the ground beneath, shattering into a thousand pieces.

But as I dress and braid my hair, I make up my mind. As soon as I meet this Mr. Reddington, I will force answers from him. I will be strong, as I have never been strong, and force him to tell me all.

Oh, it's a pleasant fantasy. I catch sight of myself in the looking glass that hangs beside the wardrobe. Despite my brave thoughts, the young woman looking back at me, in her plain, grey dress and her wide, dark-blue eyes, is trembling a little.

I take two deep breaths, to settle my nerves. And then I go downstairs to begin my new life as a governess.

* * *

Agnès sees me first. The little French girl, with her frilly white pinafore and bouncing, golden curls, cannot contain her excitement.

"Oh! _Mademoiselle Keen, vous êtes arrivés_!" she exclaims happily, rising from where she sits, at a small round table by the oval-shaped window. Mr. Kaplan is sitting there too. Just before I cross the threshold of the doorway, I see the little girl waiting with the grim housekeeper, her legs swinging beneath the table, eyes roaming with an aimless gaze, bored and waiting for something to happen.

Her natural smile erupts at my entrance and she greets me as soon as I enter the study room. She rushes to my side and has to restrain herself from embracing me. She's no more than eight or nine, about the same age I was when Mrs. Fowler came to fetch me from Gateshead. The little girl's smile is glorious and charming, but unguarded and entirely lacking in reserve.

From her straight-backed seat at the table, with her ledger in hand and pen scratching at the paper, Mr. Kaplan gives a little huff of what I can only assume is wry amusement at Agnès—or exasperation. Somehow the housekeeper seems to be able to convey both simultaneously.

The British Empire is vast, extending from the highlands of Scotland to the hot streets of India, with a hundred cultures to be wrangled under a convoluted rule of law. And yet, the most pervasive rule I've ever seen is not written in any law book but rather, written in the air that fills the parlors and sitting rooms the Empire over—that children should be seen and not heard.

Agnès apparently has never learned this rule, that's obvious. I'm to be the girl's governess, which means I need to instruct her in the ways of decorum and more muted sincerity. And I suppose I should begin at once. Still, the little girl is charming and I cannot help but answer her beaming smile with a small one of my own.

" _Bon matin, Agnès. Enchanté de faire votre connaissance,_ " I give her a warm greeting and her smile widens as she curtsies in response, dipping her golden curls prettily. I raise my glance towards Mr. Kaplan briefly, gently suggesting to the girl, "But perhaps we should speak in English?"

" _Mais oui_ ," Agnès answers, eager to please me. She catches herself immediately and tries again, with a heavy Parisian accent. "You are to be my governess, _n'est-ce pas, mademoiselle?_ "

"Yes, Agnès, would you like that?"

"Oh! Yes, yes, yes, _s'il vous plaît_ ," she replies quickly. _"_ Mr. Kaplan told me that _vous parlez francais_ and that you will teach me to read books and _géographie._ And Monsieur Reddington says that you are to stay with us and be my teacher. You are so pretty, _mademoiselle_ —" she comments sweetly, but is struggling with something.

Her eyes have dropped to my simple dress and she's eyeing it critically. Her own frills and lace betray her love of pretty things. However she imagined her governess looking, it's clear she never envisioned a woman dressed in Lowood greys, with unadorned hems and not a stitch of lace to be found anywhere. She says it plainly, making excuses for me, as a child will," _Peût-etre_ I do not think you are wearing your finest dress, _c'est vrai?_ "

"Agnès…," Mr. Kaplan grumbles half-heartedly.

" _Mais sa robe est_ _si grise,_ " Agnès argues, turning to Mr. Kaplan nearly petulantly, shaking her golden curls with a seriousness and ruefulness that's nearly misplaced on such a diminutive child.

"What did she say?" Mr. Kaplan asks me, briefly looking up from her ledger.

"She says my dress is too grey," I translate, shrugging. "Which is true…but I'm afraid I don't own any other colors, Agnès."

"Ah! _Quel dommage_ ," the little girl muses, with a pitying tone that might as well have been bemoaning my affliction of leprosy, or some other calamity. Her smile goes dark for my sake. I can't be offended—it's the truth. And Agnès is looking at me with such wide eyes, dismayed that her pretty governess doesn't have a pretty gown to wear. It's endearing.

Mr. Kaplan is looking at my dress more critically. She makes a "hmm"-ing sound before mentioning,

"Mr. Reddington will likely say something about it as well when he meets with you," Mr. Kaplan comments. "He's a man of particular tastes."

"I suppose I'll have to suffer through his disappointment," I reply, not caring much either way if my mysterious employer approves my wardrobe or not. My years at Lowood have cured me of most vanities. But the mention of Mr. Reddington sharpens my focus, once again. I ask, "Is Mr. Reddington expected back today?"

"Oh god, no," Mr. Kaplan gives her same huff, returning to the ledger. "He might be gone for weeks, months even—there's no telling how long his business will take. He once left us for four years and a day, without a word, without a warning and then showed up again, in much the same way, coming in the front door with a gruff 'Kate, send for Dembe' and not a clue as to where he'd been"—She sees my expression, amending her tone slightly, "He's a good master, Miss Keen, don't trouble yourself on that account. Just…changeable sometimes. And not the happiest of men."

"Monsieur Reddington is my _meilleur ami,_ " Agnès added, her pretty smile returning at the mere mention of her benefactor. She adds quickly, thinking she may have offended me, "Oh, except _pour vous, mademoiselle!_ "

I laugh, because the little girl's charm knows no limits. I tell her, "But Agnès, you've barely just met me."

" _Je sais_ ," she replies, nodding her head in earnest. "But I know I will love you, _mademoiselle,_ just the same."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** This chapter was super fun to write because 1) I was able to rework an iconic Jane Eyre scene (stealing bits and pieces from all my favorite versions) and 2) Red's back :)

Thanks for all your likes/comments, m'dears! Xo

 **Chapter Four:**

Mr. Kaplan is right—Agnès _is_ a sweet girl. But she's terribly inattentive to her studies. She gets bored easily, computing her sums with the glummest little look on her face. One reading lesson nearly conquers her and I watch her shoulders droop as if she were Atlas, breaking under a ponderous weight. I hide my small smile of amusement behind the book in my hand, turning before she sees the mirth in my expression.

The little French girl does not find any of this amusing. She's been very clear from our first hour in the study room. She enjoys piano and dancing and wishes that we could focus all our energies on these two subjects, leaving the rest far behind.

"But mathematics is important as well, Agnès. And geography and biology," I try to persuade her, sitting down beside her in the window seat of one of Thornfield's imposing turrets. I open the book in my hands to a page filled with illustrations of South American birds, their colorful wings unfurled. I play to her sense of curiosity, "Don't you want to read about other places? And the things that live there?"

The pictures nearly convince her. She reaches out her fingers to trace the lines on the scarlet macaw gracing the page. The vibrant colors that the artist has depicted seem out of place here, where late autumn is flirting with early winter. There was a heavy frost this morning and, when my gaze momentarily drifts out the window, I see a grey mist has settled over the brown and fallow countryside.

"I like the colors of this bird," Agnès admits, rewarding me with a small smile while she strokes the scarlet feathers. "It reminds me of a dress that _Maman_ used to wear to the theater."

"You see?" I reply. "It's not all dreary work."

But Agnès knows that line well enough. She almost groans, knowing what comes next. I've been at Thornfield a fortnight and she's becoming too accustomed to my teaching style.

"But you're going to make me work at arithmetic again, _n'est-ce pas_?" she asks, grimacing in anticipation.

I nod, firmly but with encouragement. I explain, "It's important for you to learn these things, Agnès. I wouldn't make you do them otherwise."

She sighs softly, but complies, not wishing to displease me. I am her _chère mademoiselle_ still, despite the horrors of basic mathematics. Her little face is so serious, and crestfallen, that I nearly tell her she can forget her lessons for the day.

 _Nearly._

But I have decided to walk down to the village this afternoon, to take the air and post a letter to the advertising agency that had run my inquiry of requesting positions for a governess, cancelling the time remaining.

Despite the strangeness of this place and the continued absence of its master, my two weeks at Thornfield have been tranquil and Agnès endeared herself to me from the first. I can't see myself leaving, and so I have no reason to continue the advertisement.

I squeeze Agnès's shoulder lightly, giving her my best maternal encouragement as I hand her a ledger of figures, with times tables listed out to twenty. She takes it, though begrudgingly.

"See how many of those you can finish before I get back from posting my letter," I say to her, with a promise to follow, "And when I return, I'll teach you a new duet on the piano. How does that sound?"

At the mention of the piano or any sort of music whatsoever, her expression always lightens. It sounds very nice to her, she answers, and busily starts working at the numbers as I grab my shawl and bonnet from the desk nearby.

* * *

"Oh, Miss Keen?" Mr. Kaplan stops me as I descend the grand staircase in the front hall, catching me just as I'm pulling on my gloves and heading for the front door. She's coming from the lower rooms, down near the kitchen, with two missives in her hands. She reaches out with the letters, confident that I'll take them. "Another two for the post, if you don't mind?"

"I don't mind at all," I answer, taking the letters from her hand and slipping them into the pocket of my skirt with my own. My words are sincere. Mr. Kaplan, for all her brusque manners, is an efficient and fair housekeeper. She's kept busy by Mr. Reddington's affairs, of which I still know very little, but she's been helpful in making me feel welcome here. After the years at Lowood, I find myself grateful for someone, _anyone,_ who takes a moment to ask if I mind anything at all.

"And put a cloak on, dearie, it's frigid out there," Mr. Kaplan runs her hands up and down her upper arms. She looks at my shawl critically, frowning and shaking her steel-grey head.

"I'm afraid I don't own one," I admit, bashfully. Lowood was, at times, more prison than school and our standard issue uniforms were lacking in more than just color. I nearly shiver, remembering the cold of my bedroom in that place. Honestly, the drafts of Thornfiled are almost balmy in comparison.

"Ask Luli to get you something more suitable," Mr. Kaplan instructs, tipping her head towards the scullery, where I would find the affable chambermaid.

"Yes, ma'am," I nod, adding meekly. "Thank you."

Before we part, a noise from the upper floors—a strange, hollow laugh—echoes down the staircase from the north wing of the house. It's reminiscent of that strange, unearthly howl I thought I heard my first night at Thornfield, and then blamed on the weather. But this is no howl; this is a laugh.

And I'm not the only one who hears it. Mr. Kaplan's gaze flickers towards the noise, same as mine. The laugh, or whatever it is, is soft but odd. The voice that makes it has a woman's throaty notes but there's no humor in it. The sound fades away soon, like ripples in a pond.

I turn to Mr. Kaplan for explanation but she's set her jaw and is not looking at me.

"Lucy?" Mr. Kaplan calls up the stairs, her powerful voice carrying much further than the strange bit of laughter.

It takes a minute or two, but a young woman with chestnut brown hair and heavy lidded eyes, appears from a few floors up, leaning over the bannister. Her hair is done up in a messy bun under a lace headband, with tendrils escaping. She looks relaxed, like she just rolled out of bed. Her posture and general demeanor are the exact opposite of Mr. Kaplan and I wonder how both these women came to work for the same employer.

From her perch far above, Lucy's gaze slides from Mr. Kaplan to me and, I swear, she's suppressing a smirk. Her teeth scrape over her bottom lip lightly as she keeps the smirk in check. I'm not sure if it's anything to do with me, but I'm suddenly uneasy all over again, wondering at the young woman—who is she and why haven't I met her before now?

"Yes, Mr. Kaplan?" Lucy finally replies, in a smooth, casual voice.

"Too much noise, Lucy," Mr. Kaplan cautions, with a brisk shake of her head and a glance of disapproval that would wither a flower.

Lucy's shadow of a smirk is gone as quickly as that and she merely nods once, knowingly, before pulling back from the bannister and vanishing out of sight.

Beside me, Mr. Kaplan sighs. She mentions, "That's Lucy Brooks—she's a seamstress from the village. The master hired her out of some misguided notions of charity. Her mother was a known gin-swiller and her father was nobody-knows-who. I'm afraid she takes after her mother in _far_ too many ways."

She leaves it at that, changing the subject seamlessly, "You should go, Miss Keen. Night falls quickly this time of year and you don't want to walk home in the dark…"

* * *

The dark blue cloak that Luli finds for me fits perfectly. And I'm glad to have it, as I walk down the frosty road from Thornfield Hall. The clouds above are cinder-colored and low in the sky, heavy with snow and ice that threatens to fall at the slightest inclination.

The heather hills around the manor house are dressed in shades of black, brown and grey, with dead foliage strewn on the ground beneath every copse of limbless trees. The earth crunches under my boots. A cold breeze nips at my face and I keep myself hidden beneath the hood of my cloak until I finally leave the openness of the meadows and reach a more wooded section of the road. It's flanked by a speck of forest on one side and jagged rock outcroppings on the other. This part of the path is protected from the wind but icier too, as it hasn't seen the sun in a few days.

This is my favorite part of the walk down to the village, as the landscape has an eerie, otherworldly look about it, as if fairies and elves might be hiding around the next corner. The white path twists along the edge of the forest, blanketed in mist, and I find myself transported, mind wandering to thoughts of magic and the wholly mystical.

I pause on the road, lifting back the hood of my cloak. I'm hovering in the mist, lost in fantasy and not paying attention at all. So I don't hear the horse and its rider until they are nearly on top of me.

I see the dog though, a large, dark-colored breed with white paws splattered in mud, as he runs by me, ahead of his master. I watch the dog pass, startled at his sudden appearance, wondering where he's come from before turning back, as the sound of strong hoof beats against the hard ground finally resonate in my ears.

I have no time to cry out, though I feel my heart leap in my chest as the coal-black horse appears out of the mist, as if charging out of another world. It happens too fast and I have no time to react, except to raise my hands against collision...

But then the horse veers at the last moment, rearing up, and his rider is crying out a command, followed by a curse as the horse slips on the icy path and both fall to the ground.

"Goddamnit!" the man manages, gruffly and with more than a little surprise.

The horse recovers fast, getting up on its knees first and then forelegs, spiriting off a few meters away, rattled by the fall. His rider follows suit, though slower. I've finally roused myself enough that I go to him, just as he's pushing himself off the ground.

"Sir, are you injured?" I ask immediately, concern flooding my voice. His hat had fallen off in the tumble and I reach down to pick it up. As he hobbles to his feet, favoring the right one, I stretch out my hand to assist but am rebuffed.

"Oh, stand aside," he grumbles, brushing off the frosted dirt clinging to his pant's leg, not sparing so much as a glance in my direction, as he vents his vexation, "What are you doing on the road—rising out of the mist like a _witch_?"

The emphasis he places on that final word sparks a reaction in me that is a bit more fiery than it should be. I know he's hurt but that's no reason to take it out on me. My temper, something I haven't contended with in a long, long time, rears its ugly head briefly. My concern melts away slightly and I turn indignant.

"I was walking to the village," I state firmly, defending myself on reflex. "And this is a shared roadway."

"You weren't walking. You were hovering," he amends my words for me, leaving no room for argument. As he puts weight on his left ankle, he grimaces, gritting his teeth against the pain that is doubtlessly shooting up from the injury. My anger recedes just as quickly as it appeared. I'm struck by the pain in his features and feel an odd, almost impulsive need to alleviate it.

I add, with less fire and more apology, "I didn't see you."

He merely nods, still contending with the ruined ankle, reaching down to feel the breadth of the injury, a slight groan escaping his lips as his hand passes over the tender source of the sprain. He waves me off but I can't think of leaving him in this state. I take a step closer.

"I can go for help, sir," I try again, gesturing back towards Thornfield. "I live not far from here, at Thornfield Hall…"

"Thornfield?" My simple offer strikes a chord and I watch the man's head snap up, as he finally takes a good look at me.

I find myself studying him as well, this stranger—he's middle-aged, clean-shaven, his temples streaked with grey. His long coat and buttoned vest, white collar and tie, are all of high quality and expense. But it's his eyes that have my attention, the intensity in those blue-green eyes as they meet mine, and the way his mouth moves just slightly, as if he means to speak, but then, he shakes his head, eyes flickering away…and I'm not sure if he's answering me or some internal voice with the gesture.

"Sir?" I ask, my question still lingering.

"No," he answers, in a much softer voice than before, though I'm not sure what's changed. He attempts a step on the injured ankle but grits his teeth again, sucking in a sharp intake of air, and can't manage it. He opens his mouth once, closes it, and then wonders, "Do you think you can get my horse and bring him over to me?"

He's looking at me again, his eyes running over my face and then dropping lower, perhaps lower than they should, before returning to meet my gaze directly once again. He cocks his head slightly, waiting for my reply. There's something in his knowing expression—I have the strangest sensation that he's guessing my thoughts.

"I…yes," I answer, recovering, but without any confidence in my reply at all. I'm looking at the horse—the animal is tall, massive and skittish. And Lowood isn't exactly known for teaching its girls the art of horseback riding. The terrible truth is, I've never touched a horse in my life. Not once.

"You're not afraid, are you?" the man asks me softly, almost slyly, in a tone that skirts on teasing. I have yet to take a step towards the horse.

"No, sir," I reply immediately, forcing my feet forward, despite my reservations. I'm not going to give the stranger the satisfaction of reading my thoughts correctly. He just met me, for God's sake.

The horse takes a step sideways as I approach. I reach up towards the bridle but the horse senses my hesitation and jerks his head back. I try once more, grabbing at the loose reins, but the horse is stubborn and just backs away further, moving closer to the border of woods lining the edge of the road.

"Come here," the man chuckles darkly at my efforts, before sighing and beckoning me back. His voice holds an innate power that I wouldn't think to second guess. I do as he commands, returning to his side. He makes a false start of bringing his arm over my shoulders, to let me know what he intends. "Forgive me…necessity compels me to make use of you."

His hand comes to rest on my opposite shoulder as I slide my own arms beneath his, across his coat and the wool vest at his waist, lending my slender form as a makeshift crutch. This close, I'm conscious of the warmth of his body and the smell of his clothes—rosewood, cedar and tobacco mixed together. Other than my uncle, I've never been this close to a man in my whole life. The thought rushes into my head without invitation but I soon bury it, wondering why I'm taking more than cursory notice of this man at all.

We retrieve the horse—this time together. The horse responds to his master's touch with far less rebellion and soon the stranger has hoisted himself back on his mount, his hand slipping from my shoulder as he picks up the reins once again.

"Your hat?" I offer, finding I still have it clutched in my hand. He takes it, our fingers brushing past each other as the hat changes hands.

"What is your name?" he asks, gathering up the reins in one hand, while those blue-green eyes look down on me with the same intensity as before. I'm unnerved by it and…oh, I'm not sure. I've only just met this man, but somehow there's something in this encounter that feels an awfully lot like fate. Perhaps it's just the mist and the old twist of road but I'm altogether sure that my next words _mean_ something.

"Elizabeth Keen," I reply, unable to refuse him. He nods, a few times, confirming something to himself. Despite the pain that must be shooting through his ruined ankle, he gives me an almost bittersweet smile, twisted up by a bit of irony that I recognize but fail to understand.

"Well, Miss Keen, that's what happens when you spook a man's horse," he mentions, that same hint of tease from earlier present in the next words, "A lot of pain and cursing."

"I didn't spook your horse," I answer in kind, surprising myself. I don't think there's a more ironclad rule at Lowood School than the one that says young women are not to engage in any sort of "banter" with strange men on country roads. If only Diane Fowler could see me now, as I continue, nearly defiant, "There's ice on the road and your horse slipped."

After a moment's pause, the man gives a small laugh at my manner. He mutters, "Oh, Miss Keen. Indeed."

After placing his hat back on his head, he bends the rim slightly before giving me a parting glance that I hold, despite the strangeness of this whole encounter.

"Give my regards to the master of Thornfield," he says and then urges his horse on, vanishing into the mist before I have a chance to reply.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** As always, thanks for the faves/kudos! Mwah!

 **Chapter Five:**

When I return from the village, night has fallen and the old house is once again bathed in twilight and shadow. Evening falls early this time of year so I'm not sure I would have made it back before sunset, even without the delay with the stranger on the road.

I'm worried Mr. Kaplan will scold me for tarrying out in the countryside after dark, but there's little I can do about it. As I enter the kitchen, I notice a new energy to the house that wasn't present a few hours ago. The cook and the scullery maids are rushing around, preparing dinner with a speed and intensity that I haven't seen before. The other servants too—I see them hurrying through the outer rooms, suddenly compelled to light fires and tidy up unused rooms. I'm confused by the commotion…until I see the dog.

The dog pads in from the outer rooms and takes an offered scrap of beef from the cook's outstretched hand. The dog is a large breed, a Newfoundland, I think, though I have as little experience with dogs as I do with horses. He's darkly colored, with a strip of grey running along his throat. And he has white paws.

"Off with you, Pilot," the cook says, when the dog comes back for more. "No one likes a beggar."

I've seen this dog. No more than an hour or two ago.

My heart tightens in my chest, my mind buzzing with the list of possible reasons why the stranger's dog is padding through the rooms at Thornfield Hall. The list is short.

"Miss Keen!" Luli finds me as I'm slipping off my gloves and undoing the laces on the cloak she found for me earlier that afternoon. She has a basket of candlesticks in one arm and a set of bedsheets in the other. She hesitates in the doorway to the kitchen only a moment, pausing on her way to other errands. "Mr. Kaplan is looking for you. She's in the front hall with the doctor."

"The doctor?" I wonder, but the puzzle pieces are fitting together too snugly in my head.

 _Give my regards to the master of Thornfield,_ the stranger had said.

"Mr. Reddington's returned," Luli explains quickly, as she turns to go. "But he had an accident on the road. The doctor's already tended to him and should be on his way shortly. Mr. Kaplan will be wanting to speak with you as soon as she's finished."

I nod my assent, almost absently, playing back the scene on the road through an entirely new lens. He should have told me who he was. Why didn't he? And thinking on things I said—to my employer! I nearly cringe at my impulsive manner. I had been heated, argumentative…and _familiar_. God, I'd cast the blame for the fall back on him, hadn't I?

Glumly, I consider what it all means. I won't be surprised if he dismisses me from service this very evening. _And where will you go, Elizabeth?_ The unhelpful voices in my head start their questions immediately but I have no answers. I've burned bridges with Aunt Keen and Lowood School. I'm an orphan in the world, no friends and no family…oh, there's misery in these thoughts and I suppress them as best I can, my fingers secretly clenching nervously in the folds of my skirt.

But Luli doesn't notice my distraction. She has completed another item on her presumably endless list of tasks and is satisfied, ducking away, off to complete the rest.

* * *

"You're charging too much, Dr. Carter. You know you are." Mr. Kaplan's gruff voice fills the front hall with her disapproval. Her shoulders are bent and rounded slightly, as she's a tall woman and is squaring off against the much shorter doctor. Dr. Carter is no more than five feet tall, if that. He's one of the shortest fully grown men I've ever seen. But he stands his ground in the front hall of Thornfield, pugnaciously haggling with the housekeeper, until she gives him what he wants.

"Beggars can't be choosers," Dr. Carter counters, raising a stubby, scolding finger in her direction. He not-so-subtly reminds her, "He never fails to call me out in the middle of the night, any hour, any day. And it's _always_ something shady with Reddington."

"A sprained ankle from a fall is hardly shady, Glen," Mr. Kaplan argues back, crossing her arms over her chest and rising up to her full height. The little man just pushes his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose and cranes his neck a little further.

"But what about the next time, hmm? And the time after that? Eh, Kate?" the doctor replies smartly, knowing he has the upper hand. He shrugs innocently, "Maybe I'll just take my time getting here next time Thornfield's in need of my services?"

Mr. Kaplan nearly growls in response. But Dr. Carter is not afraid of her. He just holds out his hand for payment and waits. The housekeeper finally relents, uncrossing her arms and pulling out the cash and coin from her apron pocket. She counts it out into his open palm, with her mouth drawn in a firm line.

"Excellent, pleasure doing business with the fine house of Thornfield. As always," Dr. Carter folds the bills up and slips the money into his breast pocket, briefly smiling at the sight of so much silver. The smile looks out of place on his curmudgeonly features. After putting the money in his pocket, he tips his hat in Mr. Kaplan's direction. "I'll be back at the end of the week to check on Reddington's progress."

"What joy," Mr. Kaplan grumbles sardonically, closing the front door before the doctor can say anything else. She sighs, unhappy with a lost battle. Especially against a diminutive country doctor with misplaced ideas of grandeur.

"Why doesn't Mr. Reddington procure the services of another doctor?" I ask, my curiosity winning out over tact. I've been watching the encounter from the base of the front stairs, hovering in the shadows, waiting for Mr. Kaplan to finish with the doctor.

"Glen Carter has an innate gift for removing bullets from chest cavities and sewing up knife wounds to the gut," Mr. Kaplan grumbles some more. I can't tell if she's joking or not. The injuries she describes don't sound like random examples. But she gives me a dark, scolding look when she adds, "And he doesn't ask questions."

I can take a hint. I bite my tongue on any further inquiries, and instead, speak meekly, "Luli said you were looking for me?"

She shakes off the doctor's victory with one last sour sigh. Then, she nods and starts walking down the west corridor briskly, gesturing for me to follow.

"Mr. Reddington wants to see you, of course," Mr. Kaplan mentions, while muttering to herself, "He never announces his visits. Just shows up and expects everything to fall in place. And he's injured himself on the road. As if he doesn't know the state of country roads this time of year. My God, he travels them often enough."

At the door to the west corridor library, Mr. Kaplan stops short, turning and regarding me frankly, head-to-toe, "Oh, I daresay he'll find something to say about that dress. But I suppose you won't take offense?"

"Of course not," I answer immediately, self-conscious for a host of reasons, but none of them involving the clothes I wear.

Mr. Kaplan makes a "hmm"-ing noise in the back of her throat, unconvinced, and opens the door for me.

"Miss Keen is here, sir," she calls in to the inner chambers.

"Send her in, Kate," a man's voice answers. I'm not surprised at all by the tone or cadence of the voice.

 _Give my regards to the master of Thornfield._

"Go on, Miss Keen," Mr. Kaplan urges impatiently, waving me through. Like Luli, she has a list of other matters to attend to and my hesitation irks her. I'm hesitating, still fearing that I'll be sent away as soon as I walk into the library. But I somehow summon the courage to take the necessary steps forward. I'd like to ask Mr. Kaplan to stay but, by the time I turn back, she's already gone.

The hour is late and the library is lit only by candles and the orange glow of the fireplace, where Mr. Reddington sits in a high-backed, velvet-trimmed chair, his ankle elevated on the ottoman in front of him. The fire cracks on a piece of pine. I'm relieved to find Agnès sitting nearby, on a small couch, playing with a new doll, its frilly dress and pretty features complimenting Agnès's own. She grins when she sees me, with her usual, enthusiastic, "Mademoiselle Keen!" forthcoming.

"Come, Miss Keen," Mr. Reddington commands, with a resolute tone in his cultured voice. I can't see his face, as his gaze is turned towards the fire. He insists, though gently, "Come over here by the fire, where I can see you."

I've been hesitating near the door but decide to risk the approach. If he dismisses me, he dismisses me. I'll—well, I don't quite know what I'll do, but it's out of my hands.

I play demure as I come into his line of sight, not daring a word.

"Will you sit down?" he asks, tipping his head towards the chair opposite his own. Smoothing out my skirt, I sink into it slowly, my eyes now fully on him, the man I met on the road. The man whose horse I spooked by hovering in the mist. The master of Thornfield—Raymond Reddington.

He sees my tenseness, and the forlorn frown that must accompany it, and shakes his head. A grin—small and tinged with an old sadness—but still a grin, breaks across his mouth. He looks at me curiously, intently, as if I were an exhibit in a museum or perhaps a fabled creature in a fairy tale. It's strange for me to draw anyone's gaze, least of all a man with such wealth and reputation. I'm unused to it, to say the least.

"Elizabeth Keen," he repeats my full name. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

"You're Raymond Reddington," I reply, the statement falling flatter than I meant it. I need no confirmation. But his grin twists into a smirk nonetheless. That smirk, so confident, so all-knowing, needles me once again. His eyes pierce me straight through. And I feel like he's rummaging around in my thoughts, as if he were a fortune teller or clairvoyant raja at a carnival.

I'm emboldened by that smirk, forgetting that I promised myself I'd be meek and apologize for the incident on the road.

"Have we met before, sir?" I ask, pointedly.

"Well…," he begins, tipping his head while reaching for the snifter of brandy sitting on the stand next to his chair and giving me a look that's all together too clever.

The icy road. The spooked horse.

 _Have you forgotten so quickly, Miss Keen?_

"No, I don't mean—" how quickly we seem to be speaking without words. It's unnerving. But I shake my head, starting once again, "I mean…before. Have we met before today? Did you know my uncle? Did you know Sam Keen?"

Mr. Reddington settles back with his brandy, bringing the snifter to his lips before giving me a reply. He seems to be weighing his answer.

"No, we've never met, Lizzie," he answers, in a clipped tone that nonetheless breathes sincerity. He falls silent, neglecting to answer my second question. I would press him, I would—except the sound of that nickname, "Lizzie", one that's never been used by anyone in my whole life, catches me by surprise. It sounds so...familiar.

That word again. I feel a hum in the air. A charge, like the sky before a lightning storm. And I'm not sure what to do with that feeling. Not sure at all.

Luckily, Agnès breaks what threatens to become an extended silence.

"Monsieur Reddington, did you bring Mademoiselle Keen a _boite_?" the little girl wonders softly.

" _Un cadeau_ for Miss Keen? Does Miss Keen require a present?" he asks, his eyes still on me, not Agnès. His question doesn't sound serious to my ears so I wonder why he asks it at all.

"Of course not," I mumble brusquely, unaware of any situation where any other answer would be appropriate.

"But are you fond of presents?" he continues, in a manner far more curious. His tone skims the cusp of teasing again. I don't understand his manner. Oh, he's certainly changeable, as Mr. Kaplan promised.

"I don't know," I reply honestly, forcing my hands to remain still in my lap. They wish to fidget and ball up in the fabric they find there but I won't give my employer the satisfaction of knowing I'm rattled. It feels like a contest and I have no intention of losing. In fact, I add, "Lowood Institute is not generally a place for presents, sir."

"Lowood…yes, I suppose that explains the dress," Mr. Reddington mutters, as unimpressed by my wardrobe as Mr. Kaplan said he would be. But he quickly sobers at the name of the school, his eyes finally breaking from mine. There's a darkness that flickers there, at the mention of my former residence. He takes another drink from his snifter before saying, with regret (for my sake?), "That school is little better than a prison."

He would have no argument from me on that score.

"Forgive me, Elizabeth," he adds with feeling. Those words, which I had read over and over again in his letter, are suddenly spoken aloud. And now I _can't_ stop my fingers from running over themselves, despite my resolution not to fidget and not to allow his strange manner to affect me. His gaze has moved from me to the dancing flames, as he continues, "If Sam knew his wife sent you there…"

"Sir, did you know my uncle?" I repeat, almost as a plea. I have to know.

"There was a time when your Uncle Sam and I were closer than brothers," he admits, much to my surprise. He seems more than reticent about divulging any connections. I'm shocked that he admits to this one. I study him by firelight—the world-weary posture, the signet ring on his right hand, the sensitive mouth that speaks those astonishing words.

Further questions are primed on my lips. If he knew my uncle, did he know my mother and father? Does he know where I was born and why I ended up in Sam's care?

 _A fire. A locked door. A girl with blonde hair…_

Does he know about those things too?

But the door to the library opens before I have a chance to beg any further secrets from him. This is not hyperbole—I would have _begged_.

Dembe enters with a ledger and pile of letters that he hands over to Reddington as soon as he reaches him. As Reddington peruses the contents, Dembe spares a kind, spare glance on me, saying only, "Good evening, Elizabeth."

I nod in response, unsure I'll be able to answer his greeting so sedately, and without a host of questions tumbling from my mouth afterwards. I'm still staring at the master of Thornfield, intently, wishing he'd raise his gaze back up to mine, so I might try and read what's written in his features.

But he's preemptive in all things.

"Agnès should be in bed," Reddington doesn't raise his eyes, but keeps them on the letters instead. He dismisses me, gently but with a firmness that I will become extremely _familiar_ with in short order. "I don't approve of these late hours, Miss Keen."

Again, I take the hint, rising from my chair immediately. I'm happy to have the excuse to move anyway, as I'm restless and unnerved and…oh, I don't know how to describe any of it.

"Time for bed, Agnès," I stretch out my hand and beckon her near. Eager to please, as always, she hops off the couch and takes my hand, holding her new doll tightly in the other. I turn back once. "Goodnight, Dembe."

"Goodnight, Elizabeth."

"Goodnight, _sir_ ," I say to Reddington, my emphasis on his title unintentional but present nonetheless.

"Goodnight, Miss Keen _,_ " he replies in return, still refusing to look up from his paperwork.

I think he's afraid to look at me. Or cautious, anyway. And what sort of secrets could he divulge in a glance, I wonder?

Dembe's intelligent eyes flicker between the two us, perhaps wondering what transpired before he arrived, perhaps not caring at all. He seems like the stoic type. I wish I was. I wish I didn't have an impulsive idea that I might suddenly march back to where Reddington sits, place my hands on the chair arms of either side, pinning him in his seat and forcing him to look up at me.

But I know it wouldn't work anyway, fantasy or not. Reddington's stubborn and our meeting is at an end. Considering I worried that this interlude would end in my dismissal, I should be relieved.

But I'm not. I swallow my disappointment as I lead Agnès out of the library knowing that further revelations will have to wait.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note:** Secrets, secrets—so many secrets. Sorry for the delays in posting but lots more to come! As always, thanks for the faves/comments :)

 **Chapter Six:**

I've had years of practice ignoring the vague shadow that is my past.

To dwell on things we cannot know is madness and I just—I'm not sure I have the strength for it. Not knowing who you are or where you come from can infect daily life, if you let it, destroying the calm of every quiet moment with endless questions and empty answers. I learned that lesson on my own, without any assistance from Aunt Keen or Diane Fowler, thank you very much.

And yet…

My two interactions with Raymond Reddington had made me forget myself too easily. I allowed his odd manners and enigmatic nature to pull me into a swirling bed of unknowns and…tension? I don't know if that's the right word but I do feel like a taut wire with him. Taut and ready to snap. At him, at myself—I'm not sure. But it's a strange feeling and he conjures it within me with _very_ little effort.

So as I wake the next morning, I decide that I won't be pulled into anything further. I'm here to teach Agnès. Mr. Reddington, my _employer_ , can play his games without me. Whatever he knows— _if_ anything—about me or my parents or any of it is not my concern. It has nothing to do with me. It doesn't matter to me.

 _You are a terrible liar, Elizabeth Keen._

I ignore my inner voice with the same tenacity that I use to ignore the curiosity and more passionate impulses that flitter through my head hourly. I don't request another audience with Reddington, I don't knock on his study door in the evenings, demanding answers. Much as I'd like to.

Instead, I busy myself with Agnès's lessons, perhaps too intently, filling the following week with lesson after lesson, forgetting to take breaks and finding myself staring at a page that I've read three times over without comprehending a word. On Friday, the little French girl reminds me that the lunch bell came and went _encore_ as I forced her into reciting a comprehensive list of English kings and queens running back to the eleventh century.

"Oh Mademoiselle, can we stop, _s'il vous plaît_? I cannot remember anymore," she begs, not out of laziness but rather, exhaustion. " _Et j'ai faim._ "

"Yes, I'm sorry, Agnès," I apologize, one of many apologies given to my little student over the last week. I certainly do not mean to starve her for the sake of long dead kings and queens. I add, "I didn't notice the time. Go on down to the kitchen. I'll be along."

" _Merci, merci,_ " she answers, her beaming smile returning swiftly. She bounces out of the school room, happy, as always, to be released. In her haste, she nearly crashes into Mr. Reddington, as he enters at the same moment she's making her escape.

"Careful, child," he cautions her, side-stepping the imminent collision admirably. He's using a cane, as he has all week, since the accident on the road. Agnès gives her " _desolé, desolé_ " quickly, curtsying like a jewelry box ballerina and then hugging him briefly before running off to her destination. I open my mouth to call her back and perhaps explain to her how an apology is usually given, but the little girl is long gone before I can manage it.

"She's a firefly," Reddington mentions, as he watches Agnès bounce away. I can't tell if his words are said with admiration at her wild spirit or accusation at my inability to tame it. I listen for the latter, unsure.

"I'm attempting to teach her reserve but it's…," I pause, searching for the correct description and finishing lamely, "…slow going."

"Nearly impossible," he amends, finally turning to me, his blue-green eyes finding mine too easily. There's no accusation in his features. He's not scolding me. He's…sympathizing. He continues, "It's all right, Miss Keen. Agnès is her mother's creature. I never expected you to change her nature. But you've made great strides with her in a short period of time. Honestly, I'm impressed."

He nods absently, seeing my skepticism and insists, "Truly."

"I—thank you, sir," I reply, quietly, stumbling on the words. I'm as unused to compliments and praise as I am to gifts. I'm not sure how to respond. I feel a slight blush on my cheeks and turn from his frank gaze, collecting the chalk and slate board from where Agnès has discarded them. I mention, "She's a very kind child and eager to please."

"She is," Reddington agrees. I can feel his eyes on me but I keep my gaze on the chalk and slate that I busy myself with.

I expect him to continue on his way, to meet with Dembe or whatever other business occupies him this morning, but instead, he wanders further into the school room. The end of his cane scrapes the stone floors as he takes a couple steps past me, towards the turret window. His gaze drifts from me to the dreary landscape outside. Late autumn continues its maudlin greying of the countryside.

He's contemplative as he continues, still musing on Agnès, "I don't know where she picked it up. That mother of hers was—well, more like a dragon than a firefly. Beautiful, _gorgeous_ creature but she had a fiery temper that could smoke a man to ash."

I look up from the top desk drawer where I've placed the slate and chalk. My master's turned away from me, observing a pair of black crows perched on the gabled roof of an adjacent wing when he says this, and he seems distracted, by his memories of Agnès's mother or by the crows—I'm not sure which.

"Were you married to her?" I ask bluntly, too curious for my own good.

"To who?" He pulls his gaze away from the crows slowly, reluctantly, looking back at me for clarification.

"Agnès's mother." I would have thought it was obvious. Isn't that who we were discussing?

"Laurentia Dechambeau?" He laughs at the notion, a grin breaking over his previously contemplative features. He shakes his head, allowing, "No, Miss Keen. I can be a foolish man sometimes but to marry a woman like that would require a complete loss of all rational thought. Not that Madame Dechambeau didn't have her _charms_."

He gives me a lascivious look, which plainly intimates what those charms might have been and I feel my cheeks threaten to color a little more. I refuse to let them go red.

Reddington knows what he's doing. He knows I grew up in a religious orphanage and he knows that I would not have been exposed to more worldly circles. He likes making me uncomfortable, I think. And it takes so little effort on his part. But perhaps he doesn't mean it in a cruel way. No, I can read it in his expression. It's amusement that dances around the smarmy grin on his handsome face.

 _Do you think he's handsome, Elizabeth?_

"But Agnès is your daughter?" I ask the lingering question, something I've wondered since the day I arrived at Thornfield. I ignore the other, wholly inappropriate question, which has popped into my head completely uninvited.

"No, Agnès is not my child," he replies, surprisingly. "Her father was a French lieutenant who fell under Madame Dechambeau's charming spell, much to his detriment."

"To his detriment?" I raise my left eyebrow slightly.

"He was shot for it," Mr. Reddington answers plainly, adding, very understatedly, "By me."

The shock of the statement is something I can't hide. I'm sure it shows on my face as plainly and unadorned as the statement itself. He says the words so flatly, as if shooting another man is commonplace. Seeing my expression, he seems slightly confused at first, but then there's the dawning realization.

 _Ah…_ he seems to say to himself.

"Laurentia was a dancer in Paris and a business associate of mine," he explains further, his tone promising the whole story. But first, he concedes, "At times, a little more."

"I can imagine," I reply, although until I came to this house, I'm not sure that would have been true. Illicit, romantic affairs in Paris are not exactly an activity I can claim much personal knowledge over.

Reddington gives a small smirk at my wry tone before continuing more seriously, "She divulged a few too many secrets to her French lieutenant. And I'm not sure why since she was usually so discrete. Perhaps she'd grown tired of him and knew what would happen. Perhaps she was in love and just didn't care. I've never been sure and Laurentia died before I could ask her. But the boy fell into financial difficulties and thought robbing me might be the best way to pay off his creditors. Anyway, it was all a long time ago…"

"But how did you end up with Agnès?" I wonder.

"Laurentia left her in a basket at the door of my hotel in Paris with a scribbled note that said only ' _Aidez-moi, Raymond_ '," Mr. Reddington gives small shrug. "I'm afraid I've never been able to say 'no' to a beautiful woman in need of assistance."

His eyes drift back to mine at the mention of "beautiful woman," capturing my attention too fully, and I'm left fumbling for a response. He smirks once more before sighing on old wounds.

"She died in a mess of her own making," he says ruefully, musing. "Laurentia's ambitions always got in the way of everything else…"

His words drift off, not really for my benefit anymore. He breaks his gaze with me again and returns to the turret window to watch those same crows, his hand gripping the head of his cane tightly. Silence settles on the school room and I'm not sure that I should fill it. Instead, I slowly begin gathering the loose papers on the desk, making a pile of Agnès's still life drawings from the morning—a vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit…

"I _was_ married once, Lizzie," he says in a very soft voice. So soft. I barely hear it. "And I had a daughter too."

When he turns back from the window this time, the misery and pain written in his features is acute. I've only just met this man. I've known him less than a week. I don't know his history. I don't know anything about him. I know he enjoys teasing my Lowood-borne sensibilities and the way he speaks about Agnès's mother is certainly not the way a respectable man speaks about any woman…Diane Fowler warned me of his reputation.

But, in that moment, in the school room, I'm tempted to go to this man and comfort him. Yes, to slip my arms around his neck and whisper calming, soothing words at his ear. _It's all right. Everything will be all right._ Mostly, because his blue-green eyes are _haunted_ by some unspoken tragedy and the pain is curling through the space between us like a serpent.

 _And_ because he called me "Lizzie" again…

I resist the ridiculous impulse and the moment passes. Mr. Reddington's knuckles tighten around his cane and his expression turns hard and guarded once again. The pain is gone, the tease too. His eyes slip from mine, as they had that first night in the library, with regret, with worry…that he's said too much?

"Good day, Miss Keen," he mutters on his way out the door. He doesn't wait for my reply.

* * *

"He's very changeable, like Mr. Kaplan says," I mention to Luli as I help her air out the rugs and carpets of the downstairs east wing.

"So you've noticed?" Luli replies smartly. She has a sense of humor that borders on the truly sardonic. Her dark eyes glint intelligently over the red-and-blue Tahitian pattern of the rug we lay over the stone railing that leads to the gardens. She's been in service here for years so she's well aware of Raymond Reddington's ever shifting moods.

I wonder if she knows more.

"What happened to his family?" I ask, but she's already shrugging.

"I don't know," she answers honestly. She lowers her voice by a degree, "It was years ago, before he came to Thornfield…"

Luli seems hesitant to say more. She's a good chambermaid, keeps to her tasks and doesn't spend much time gossiping with the girls in the kitchen. Even in the short while I've been at the house, I've noticed that she's a favorite of Reddington. Like Dembe, she's called to Reddington's chambers at all hours and sent on clandestine errands that aren't trusted to the other maids.

She keeps things to herself.

Yet, as we beat out the rugs, I see her consider. The mysteries of this place are cloaked in shadow and secrets. You can feel them hovering over the house like wraiths. She must wonder about them too.

Perhaps against her better judgment, she divulges, "He took Dembe and I with him once—to the villa on the Mediterranean where they lived…"

I want to ask more, but I hold my tongue. I merely nod casually, hoping she'll say more without prodding. She does, though not much and certainly not what I expect.

She drops her voice again, to a hushed whisper. The words are accompanied by a grimace that says she may have been there and may have seen it, but she doesn't understand what it means.

Not then, not now.

She says softly, "He lit a match and burned that villa to the ground. There was nothing left but ashes."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:** Updates might be a little slower for a while. Real life just won't leave me alone lately. But I'll try to keep no more than three weeks between chapters if possible. Also, you guys make me blush with your comments. I appreciate you all. Fanfic readers are seriously the best. Don't ever let anyone tell you any different. Mwah!

 **Chapter Seven:**

"He wants to see you again," Mr. Kaplan mentions as we pass each other in the second floor corridor. She's in a rush, as always, and doesn't waste time stopping. I nod, unsurprised and headed in that direction anyway. The "he" she refers to is Reddington.

He had left the schoolroom so abruptly that day he talked to me about his family. And afterwards, he seemed upset that he'd shared anything at all. So I had thought he would avoid my company in the future.

But he's asked for me a number of times in the past few weeks. I'm not sure if it's because I'm a new addition to the household or because of his former connection with my uncle. He still hasn't revealed that connection with any detail, despite the number of conversations he's drawn me into over the better part of the past month. They knew each other, they were once as close as brothers—that's all I know. He refuses to divulge more.

Sometimes I think he asks for me because he needs distraction from his darker thoughts. He's nearly said it plainly once or twice before, "Entertain me, Miss Keen. I'm in a foul mood this evening."

I would think that Dembe or Luli or Mr. Kaplan might be better suited to the task, having known him longer, but, for whatever reason, he continues to ask for me.

His manner is as strange as ever but I find myself perfectly content to be his distraction, if that's what this is. Part of me knows there's danger in this, but I don't care. I've been alone for so long that to have someone, anyone, to talk to is…well, it's something that I haven't had in a _very_ long time.

He mostly just asks me questions about my life at Lowood or about teaching Agnès, or tells me stories about his travels. He's been all over the world and it's fascinating to hear him talk about fiery volcanos in South America, endless deserts of the Arabian Peninsula and the Russian winters in Moscow and St. Petersburg. His voice is made for story-telling and on those evenings when he's in the mood for it, I'm happy to be his audience.

Like tonight, as I sit across from him by the crackling fire, and he tells me about a ship wreck off Antigua and the rowboat that he and Dembe had to cobble together from bits of brandy crates to make it back to shore. I get lost in his smooth voice easily enough. I find myself studying his features and wondering…

"You study me, Miss Keen," he says with that same smirk as always. He's finished his story without me noticing. I'm lost in thought, heedless perhaps, until his next words jar me alert. He teases, "Do you find me handsome?"

"No, sir," I respond immediately, quickly…perhaps a little defensively. I have little time to think of a more diplomatic answer as I'm busy forcing the flush on my cheeks not to bloom. My God, I should be used to these sorts of comments by now.

He laughs robustly, perhaps more than I've seen him laugh before.

"That's a very _direct_ answer, Lizzie," he replies, rising from his chair to retrieve a bottle of wine from a rack on the opposite side of the room. He brings back two glasses, holding them expertly in one hand, stems crossed, as he pours from the bottle in the other.

"I—I apologize, sir. I didn't mean to be so…," I can't find the word I'm looking for. _Dishonest? False?_ Come the wholly ill-advised suggestions in my head. But the words are accurate enough.

False is perhaps not strong enough as Raymond Reddington's a _very_ attractive man, in his way. I was aware of it that first day, on the icy road where we met. I'm more aware of it now, sitting in his library, taking the glass of wine he offers me.

It's those damn eyes, I swear. Blue-green and fathomless like the sea. They can make a woman feel like she's the only person alive, the only person that matters. He's older than me, well-traveled and far more worldly. Any girl sitting across from him would find him handsome. And what's more, he knows it.

But I don't give him the satisfaction of appealing to his vanity, doubling down on my original answer as I continue, very seriously, "I should have said beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Or…that it matters more who we are and what we do, rather than how we may appear."

He gives me a look that says I'm being _far_ too philosophical as he places the wine bottle on the fireplace mantle and retakes his seat.

"You're rather plain yourself, Miss Keen," he cautions, perhaps teasing me, perhaps speaking truth. I'm not vain about my looks, in any case. But he adds, cleverly, "At least, dressed in all these greys you insist on wearing."

"Beauty is of little consequence," I respond firmly, my tongue loosened around him in a way that I would never dare around anyone else. "We are much more than our physical attributes, whatever they may be."

"Perhaps…," he concedes, shrugging, seemingly uninterested in settling the question one way or another. Sitting back against the soft fabric of his armchair, he tells me one more story for the night.

"I was once on the island of Ko Ri, in the Andaman Sea," he takes a drink of his wine. "I felt terribly ill—stung by a lionfish. I was dehydrated, in excruciating pain. Lizzie, you're meant to drink that—" He derails his own story to scold me for the untouched wine, held by the stem of the glass in my lap.

He nods at the glass. I'm worried he won't continue until I've tasted it so I bring the glass to my lips and take a sip. The foreign flavor passes my lips like a kiss. This is the first time I've ever tasted wine. He may guess—he seems to know more about me than myself sometimes—but I keep my eyes downcast, unwilling to let my gaze admit the fact for me.

Appeased, he continues,

"I had lost all sense of time and place. I was completely disoriented. But I knew I was dying, so I readied myself for it." He relates this fact so cursorily, as if it's an easy thing to accept death and let it come, without protest. Perhaps for him, it is? He appears to have a darker streak as wide as…well, the Andaman Sea.

I would say something about it, but he's still speaking, "And in that moment, at death's door, I looked up, and standing over me in the brightness was this landless Moken sea gypsy just standing there…smiling. She and her tribe nursed me back to health, good as new. And when I left the island she kissed me. It was like a…burst of sunlight on my cheek. It was—" he sighs with true contentment, finishing simply, "It made nearly dying well worth it."

He takes another drink and so do I. The second taste, a burst of dry sweetness, meets my tongue pleasantly and I find myself taking a third, longer sip.

"Anyway, that sea gypsy was _terribly_ attractive," he mentions, casually, as if that was the point of the story all along. He adds, "I've always regretted that I didn't make love to her before I left the island."

I nearly choke on the wine, coughing once before setting it aside. When I look up, I find Reddington grinning at me, amused that he has undermined my Lowood sensibilities once again. I don't appreciate that grin. I don't like feeling like I'm a game to him.

And, most of all, I don't like that he felt the need to tell me that the sea gypsy was attractive right after he said that I was plain.

 _Why would it matter if he thinks you're plain, Lizzie?_

I stand up and smooth out my skirt, ready to leave. The grin on his face falls in disappointment. He's not quite ready to say goodbye to me for the evening, and I almost think better of it. I'm conflicted, as always. He can be so cruel when he wants to be and yet, I know why he told me that story. And it had nothing to do with whether the sea gypsy woman was pretty or not.

"Sir, it's late and I have to make sure Agnès is in bed at a reasonable hour," I make my excuses. "Your words, not mine."

"Fine, Miss Keen," he knows he's upset me and so he waves me away, releasing me to my work. He will sit and stew about it for a while, but he knows I'll come again when he requests it…because I'm his employee and I don't think it's possible to refuse.

Yes, that's the reason. That's the _only_ reason.

And the fact that the story of some pretty sea gypsy from years ago conjured up some odd and utterly nonsensical feelings of jealousy in my breast, means nothing at all.

 _Nothing._

* * *

I avoid Reddington for the next few days successfully.

He doesn't ask for me and I busy myself with teaching Agnès. Her efforts with mathematics improve, finally, though she still hates numbers with as much passion as ever. Her geography needs work. I ask her to point out Russia on the globe and her little fingers find the icy expanse of Canada instead.

"Not quite," I mutter and she pouts. But then I have an idea.

I tell Agnès to wait in the study room while I retrieve a book of maps that I recently found in the west wing library, while perusing Reddington's massive collection. He's encouraged me to take whatever volumes suit, whether for Agnès's study or my own pleasure. The maps are colorful and well-illustrated, with local flora and fauna drawn in the margins. Perhaps a more artistic rendering of faraway places will prove easier to remember.

"I'll just be a minute," I promise Agnès.

But it takes me a few more minutes than I planned.

Someone's knocking at the front door as I descend the staircase. They knock a second time as I reach the landing of the first floor. I look down both halls and find none of the servants approaching. It's nearly Christmas and there's a winter carnival in the village this week, which likely accounts for their absence. I plan on taking Agnès to see the ice castles they've built tomorrow or the next day.

A third knock sounds off the iron knocker and still no one comes. I abandon my pursuit of the maps briefly and open the door.

The chill of the winter air sweeps into the front hall and I catch my breath on the taste of frost, beckoning the man inside quickly, just so I can close the door again. The man who enters is tall, grey and very stately. His coat and hat are made of fine wool and, as he removes his leather gloves, I notice his hands are well-shaped and softly-planed. These are not the hands of a working man.

"Good afternoon, sir," I greet him properly once the cold wind is shut outside again. I pull my shawl close around my shoulders and tip my head slightly. "May I ask who you are?"

"Yes, you may," the man mutters, taking his time. He brushes snow from his shoulders and off the top hat. He glances at me once and then twice, longer the second time, lingering on my face. His voice holds a slight accent which I can't quite place, "I'm Lord Aloysius Fitch. I'm here to see Raymond Reddington."

"Is he expecting you?" I ask, not recalling news of any expected visitors, and certainly not a lord. Mr. Kaplan would have warned all of us that any high-ranking personage was coming to Thornfield Hall.

"No, he's not," Lord Fitch answers absently, now staring at me with that same look that Reddington had that day on the road, when he looked up and seemed to know me.

Except—no, not quite the same. Reddington's glance had been filled with some mixture of recognition and awe. This man's glance is all…well, I don't know exactly. But I have a sudden image of a grey wolf standing before me, sensing unexpected prey in the thicket.

He smiles. No, smirks. But again, that smirk is not like Reddington's at all. No tease, just sudden knowledge. And with all those cruel edges of an expression devoid of warmth.

He knows who I am. I don't know how, I don't know why. But this man _knows_ who I am. In a way that means more to him than it does to me.

"Reddington brought you here," he mutters, musing the strange words, as if connecting puzzles pieces that had long been cast askew in his mind. His words aren't for me but for himself.

"Who—?" I begin, pulling that shawl around me even further, but not from cold. At least not the cold of winter. But rather, the cold dread and fear of things I don't understand. Again, I'm imagining a wolf, crouching, ready to pounce…

But I can't finish the thought as I'm joined, in that moment, by someone else. Reddington comes to my side, his left hand coming to rest at my elbow, gently taking my arm and pulling me just an inch or two closer to him, away from the man in traveling clothes. He positions himself between me and the stranger. It's a simple thing, but that chill that had been crawling into my insides halts and thaws a little.

His right hand reaches out to greet the stranger.

"Aloysius, how are you?" Reddington's words are warm but his tone is not. I can read the truer question hiding behind them. _What are you doing here?_

"I'm well, thank you," Lord Fitch replies, in his clipped accent. It's European—Eastern European. But slight, no more than a whisper on his tongue. "I have business in Manchester and thought I would stop by on my way north. There were matters that I thought we might discuss but…"

Reddington doesn't say a word, his jaw clenching, waiting for Lord Fitch to continue. There's old tension between the two men, running deep as any ravine in the Highlands.

"Who is this _fetching_ young woman, Raymond?" Lord Fitch asks plainly, playing ignorant.

Reddington doesn't spare a glance on me, but his grip on my arm tightens slightly.

"She's a member of my staff, Aloysius," Reddington answers. "She's no concern of yours."

"Isn't she though?" the stranger says, his words cryptic but his gaze locked on me. He observes wryly, "The resemblance to her mother is uncanny…"

 _My mother?_ Questions swirl through my head, echoes of questions I've been asking my whole life. But the slight pressure on my forearm, from the grip of Reddington's fingers, tell me to stay silent.

"Whatever you think you—" Reddington begins, but Lord Fitch raises his hand, that wily, wolf-like expression curling his mouth into a satisfied sneer.

"You misunderstand me," Lord Fitch replies, suavely. "Oh, don't worry, Raymond. We're not the girl's keeper. If she's safe here with you, out of the way—" his words and tone turn ominous, "Well, there's little to fear from _us_ , isn't there?"

Reddington is shaking his head. The air between the two men is charged with threats and menace that I don't understand. But I feel their power and find myself inching closer to Reddington, on impulse.

"I would've appreciated a note, of course," Lord Fitch mentions. "But I can understand your hesitation. And you've never played by our rules, have you?"

"You understand nothing, Aloysius," Reddington answers firmly. "She's not who you think she is."

Lord Fitch isn't buying Reddington's deflections. But he shrugs, moving on, "Are you going to invite me to dinner or should I take my leave? As I said, there are other matters we need to discuss."

"Fine," Reddington's reply is short and clipped. He's angry at the stranger. He's angry at himself for not anticipating this meeting. He gestures to the interior of the house, "I trust you know your way to the dining room?"

"Of course," Lord Fitch answers, with that false gentility falling off his lips as easy as water over stones. He takes one more look at me, tipping his head in my direction, "Pleasure to have met you, _Masha_."

At the foreign name, Reddington throws Lord Fitch a dark look. His blue-green eyes have turned as stormy as the sea churned up by a hurricane. Lord Fitch seems unruffled, having an upper hand somehow, as he saunters towards the dining room.

As soon as he leaves the front hall, Reddington releases my arm, reaching down and grasping my hand instead as he leads me back upstairs. He says nothing until we are in the corridors leading to the study room, where he leaves me with a short directive, said under those stormy eyes that I dare not disobey, "Stay out of sight until he's gone. Promise me, Lizzie?"

"I promise," I manage, completely bewildered by what has transpired in the last ten minutes.

And then he leaves me, hand slipping from mine reluctantly. As I watch him descend the stairs once more, back to his unwanted guest, I raise the hand that had held his and joined it with the other, fingers running over the scar on my wrist nervously, head swirling with thoughts of my mother…and the strange familiarity of the name _Masha._


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:** I do solemnly swear not to take six seasons to have Lizzie say the words "I love you" to Red. My. God. That took a while. Not quite there yet in this fic…although Elizabeth is definitely feeling _feelings._ Thanks for the love/comments on this! Xoxo :)

 **Chapter Eight:**

Lord Fitch departs before the evening's end. I stay out of sight, as Reddington requests. But I'm too curious to hide away completely.

I know when the stranger leaves the house, unaccompanied and with as cold a send-off as Thornfield's quiet, chilly halls can give him. I'm rooted in the shadows of the second floor landing, watching the tall man pull on his coat and gloves before venturing out into the winter night.

"Dembe, would you call up my carriage?" Lord Fitch wonders, as the other man passes through the front hall.

Dembe doesn't answer Lord Fitch; he doesn't pause his steps. His expression is set in a dark frown that goes far beyond menacing. He's short-spoken at the best of times but this is intentional. There's no love lost between these two. Dembe continues on his way without a word, denying the visiting lord any sort of reply whatsoever.

Lord Fitch seems undisturbed by the insult. Perhaps he's used to it? In fact, he smirks again at Dembe's retreating back. I don't like his smirk. I don't like anything about him. And the feeling appears to be mutual among the residents of Thornfield.

Well, almost. There's one final member of the household that Lord Fitch sees before he goes.

As his hand reaches for the front door, Lucy Brooks suddenly appears from the outer corridors and the north wing stairway, having descended from her tower perch for a late dinner. This is customary for her, as she rarely joins the other servants for their evening meal.

The little seamstress doesn't mix with the rest of us. I rarely see her, as she's usually sequestered up in the north tower. It's a strange sort of exile, still unexplained. I assume that the drinking has something to do with it. Maybe the housekeeper is worried the girl's gin-swilling habit will corrupt the others. I've tried to get a straight answer about Lucy more than once. But Mr. Kaplan has been evasive, saying only, "The north tower always catches the wind. Be glad you don't have to work in it."

To be honest, I've forgotten that Lucy is a part of this household too many times to count. And every time I'm reminded, by a glimpse here, or the sound of unnatural laughter in the night, I'm just as uneasy about her presence as that first impression, when she looked down at me with such a strange, hooded expression.

But Lucy and Lord Fitch know each other, that's obvious. It's a brief interlude but intimates a long-standing acquaintance. The seamstress answers his smirk with one of her, stepping up on her tiptoes to kiss his wrinkled cheek, as he says, "You're looking radiant as always, Lucy."

"I bet you say that to all the girls, my lord," she answers slyly, before pulling away. The pause lasts only a moment, before she's gone, off to the kitchen for her dinner.

I don't like the connection that the little moment betrays. I don't like Lord Fitch. And I'm as uneasy about Lucy Brooks as ever.

As Lord Fitch gives a parting glance up the front hall stairs, in the general direction of where I hover in the shadows, I flatten my body against the stone wall, holding my breath.

I don't start breathing again until he leaves the house. Which he does, almost directly after, gone as quickly as he came. At his exit, I breathe a sigh…of relief? I don't know what to feel, as I don't know what it all means.

There's one man who might be able to tell me, of course. And finally explain…

But I don't see Reddington all evening. He tells Mr. Kaplan that he's not to be disturbed and retires early. I'm disappointed, of course, having hoped for—something, anything. Who is Lord Fitch? How does he know me? Why did he call me Masha? I find myself restless and ill at ease, my mind abuzz with questions.

I consider going to Reddington's chambers and pounding at his bedroom door until he relents and lets me in.

Again, there's something boiling up within my soul. Like water stressing at a dam, pressure building, and I wonder if I'll eventually go mad with all these secrets.

But this isn't the first time I've been denied answers. I doubt it will be the last. With tenacity of will, I put Lord Fitch and his unexpected visit out of my head.

After putting Agnès to bed, I retire to my own chambers—weary, spent, lonesome for…oh, I don't know what.

But the exhaustion of the day catches up with me and I fall asleep soon after.

* * *

"All these lovely manuscripts and my favorite part of this place is still the view from the sofa…," Red murmurs, his gaze not on me but on the light falling through a tall, glass window on the opposite side of the room. He nods to a grove of autumn-turned oak and hemlock visible through the window, colors brightened by the setting sun. "You see it? The way the light breaks through the trees…"

The light bends smoothly, filling the cluttered sitting room with a soft, orange, sunset glow that imparts warmth on all that it touches—piles of books and paper, a low table, the white sofa that Reddington sits on, the glass tumbler in his hands, ice cracking against the liquid within. The light falls on me too, but only just, as I'm standing near an interior door filled with dark shadows.

Something's been holding me close to that darkness. I feel pulled back by it, as if hands might reach out and drag me back through the door. But Red's here. He'll keep me safe.

Ignoring the shadows valiantly, I take a step closer to Red—into the warmth, into the sun, sinking down onto the white cushions beside him with a weariness that's been eating at me. For days? For hours? Time is nothing here.

 _Where is "here"?_

I look at Red and wonder if he knows where we are. And when did I start calling him Red, I wonder?

He pours a drink of some of that clear liquid into a glass and hands it to me.

"I don't even know what I'm doing here," I say helplessly, shaking my head slowly, as if following some script I don't remember. His fingers brush mine as the glass switches hands. His hands radiate the same warmth as the sunlight filtering into the room. I almost reach out and take his hand, if only to keep the warmth with me.

At my words, Red nods, in sympathy. His blue-green eyes promise, "You're safe here, Lizzie," and then he offers his hand.

I interlace my fingers with his and marvel at how well they fit.

What is this place anyway? It feels familiar but I can't place it. And there's street noise outside that could only be found in a city. But we're at Thornfield. Aren't we?

"A dream," I say to Red, realization dawning. It's a dream. Dream-Red nods again and keeps hold of my hand, seemingly undisturbed by the fragility of the scene.

"Isn't everything?" he muses.

Someone scratches at my bedroom door and I wake.

 _Pilot,_ I think as my eyes open. This isn't the first time Reddington's dog has wandered up to my room. He's even slept at the foot of my bed a couple times, though I have no idea what compels him to seek me out.

I don't mind though. He's a good dog, mild-mannered and sweet-tempered. So I rise, pulling my long, dark hair to one side as I get up to let Pilot in.

But when I unlatch my bedroom door and open it, the dog is not there. No one's there. The hallway is empty…except for an echoed noise.

Not a noise. A laugh. That same unearthly laugh I've heard before. Mr. Kaplan says it's the wind against the stone battlements. But I'm not convinced, especially as I'm reminded of Lucy Brooks again, having seen her earlier in the evening. The sound makes me shiver and I almost shut my door up again, drowsy and wondering if it's all in my head.

But then I smell it. The distinct smell of smoke and cinder, drifting down the corridor. Alarmed, I quickly grab my shawl from a nearby chair and hasten down the hall to follow the smell. The hallways are eerie in moonlight and the floors are cold against my bare feet but I ignore the dread of ghosts or any supernatural mischief, as the smell of smoke becomes almost overwhelming as I approach Reddington's personal chambers.

My chest tightens at the sight of a flickering candle that has been left on the floor outside his bedroom.

An ominous orange glow escapes from beneath the door frame, with wisps of smoke curling up its sides like long, grey fingers. My heart sinks like lead in a pond and, grasping at the door knob, I quickly force open the bedroom door.

 _Fire!_

The bed is on fire. No, the drapes! Tongues of flame lick at the ceiling, appearing like the open mouth of hell, gaping, ringed with orange and scarlet. And Reddington is fast asleep within the blazing inferno.

"Mr. Reddington!" I run as close to the flames as I dare, looking around the room for anything to quell the blaze. I implore the man to wake. He's still dressed in his waistcoat and dress pants, having fallen asleep in a restless fashion, an empty wine glass discarded beside him on the quilts, "Sir, wake up!"

He doesn't stir. The noise of the fire is overwhelming. The roar is in my ears, the smoke surrounds us. A vase of roses! I reach for it, ripping the flowers from the container before throwing the water in Reddington's face.

"Sir, please, wake up!" I shout again, and see him sputter on the water.

"What, is there a flood?" he mumbles grumpily, shaking his head against the onslaught of water. But he rises too, seeing the danger that surrounds him immediately. He coughs on the smoke but gains enough control over his voice to give me a curt command, the slightest hint of fear coloring his calm voice, "Stand back, Elizabeth."

Then he wordlessly gestures at a wash basin I missed, which I grab quickly and hand over to him. He douses the upper drapes, tempering the flames a little. But then Reddington pulls down the drapes, one by one, carefully, quickly, taking them down from their fixtures, stripping them onto the floor and then folding them onto themselves to smother out the flames.

He keeps folding, over and over, on his hands and knees, snuffing out the last of the fire before throwing the whole heap of charred and smoking bedclothes into the barren fireplace. We both cough and hack on the accumulation of smoke, which has now filled the room with the acrid taste of smolder and ruin.

I've tasted it before, a long time ago, and I don't like it. I don't like it all.

Once he's put out the flames, Reddington beckons me to him, taking my hand as he leads me into the adjoining room, his personal study, where the smoke is kept out by the double doors between them. He shuts the doors tightly behind us, coughing again on bits of smoke caught in his lungs.

He finds a carafe of water and pours us both a drink. He presses the glass into my hand and I take it gladly, as my throat is dry and parched and burned on smoke.

"What happened?" he asks, as soon as we're both able to talk.

"I don't know," I manage, overwhelmed. My hands are shaking. "I heard a scratch at my bedroom door and when I opened it…a laugh. And there was a smell of smoke in the corridor. I…sir, should I fetch Mr. Kaplan?"

"No," he replies, shortly. Then he mutters bleakly, mulling something over in his head, "What can she do?"

"But, sir, you were nearly burned in your bed," I can't hide the tremor that accompanies these words and I find myself shivering. I ramble a little, speaking more to myself than to him, "Does this have to do with Lord Fitch's visit? Does someone want you dead?"

My voice cracks on the final word and I can't say anything more. Reddington looks at me. _Really_ looks at me, in my shawl and nightgown, my dark hair undone and loose around my shoulders, his gaze moving from my face, down the rest of me and back again.

"Lizzie, you're trembling," he notices. Of course, he notices. He takes my arm and leads me to a high-backed chair near the window. The room is midnight-dark, but bathed in silver moonlight. His cloak lays discarded on a low table nearby. He retrieves it and throws it around my shoulders, bringing it snug around me before saying gently, "Stay here. I'll return shortly."

Does he kiss my forehead before he leaves? I can't be sure. There's a phantom thought that says he must have but I can't trust it. I can't trust anything.

And then he's gone, through the outer door, leaving me alone in his study.

I sink into the moonlit chair slowly and bring my knees up against my chest, gathering Red's cloak around me. The cloak smells like him, tobacco and cedar and rosewood mixed together.

Every sound seems to echo through the old halls with a sinister air. The winter wind is beating against the battlements. I bring his cloak closer still, and wait for him to return.

* * *

He's gone for nearly half an hour. I'm hidden away in that armchair, alert, unable to doze off, as the events of the night have my heart pounding and my nerves frayed.

The sight of Red coming back through the door fills me with a sense of calm that was absent while he was gone. I'm reminded of my dream from earlier in the night. I don't dwell on that feeling, nor do I dwell on the fact that I've begun referring to the man as Red, as if we're old friends, as if we're…

I raise my head as soon as he lifts the latch and meet his gaze as he comes closer. His features are no longer as transparent as the hour before, where I could read his concern and confusion as easily as my own.

Now he's affixed a mask again. I hate his masks. He even says, "I forget…did you say you saw someone in the corridor?"

"No," I reply, shaking my head. But it's obvious who it was, isn't it? It feels obvious to me, "I think…it was Lucy Brooks, sir."

"Lucy?" the slight hesitation lasts a beat, no more, as he nods. "Yes, of course. Lucy. She's careless sometimes and accidents happen. We'll know more about it in the morning."

He's dismissing the whole episode. I can hear it in his voice—morning will come and we'll speak absolutely _no_ more about it. But why?

"Why do you keep her in the house if she's so…careless?" I use his word, though I can think of half a dozen that might work better. Menacing, false, _mad_ …

"Lucy is not someone you should concern yourself with. She's my employee and I need her here. That's all you need to know."

"What about Lord Fitch? Why did he come here? Does it have something to do with my mother?" I beg for answers.

"He didn't know you were here," Red grumbles, truth hiding in the dark corners of his cryptic answers. "So how could it have anything to do with you. Or _her_."

He doesn't deny the connection. And the emphasis he puts on the word "her," with such venom behind it, turns my blood icy again.

"But why—"

"Elizabeth, that's enough!" his command comes out harsher than he intends. I know this because I see his immediate regret. His words linger in the air, and I'm sure my face can't hide the hurt I feel, at being silenced so abruptly. His features are at war with themselves, angry at the direction our conversation has taken, crestfallen at having raised his voice to me.

"Don't worry about it," he continues, far more gently this time, but cutting off any more interrogation on the matter nonetheless. "The danger's over, in any case. You can go back to bed."

Now he's dismissing me. Dutifully, I remove his cloak from my shoulders and rise from the chair. I fold the cloak over the arm and push a few loose strands of my dark hair back behind my ears.

"Goodnight, sir," I mumble as I turn to go.

"What?" he replies, nearly annoyed, as if I'm leaving too soon. But he just…

"You told me to go," I answer, shrugging, nearly confused.

"Yes, I did," he answers, clarifying. "But not so dryly. Elizabeth—" He searches my face, imploring me to understand the depth of his next words, "You just saved my life."

"It was nothing," I say, repeating, as if to convince myself, "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Red takes a step closer to me. And then another. Having been wrapped in his cloak for the last half hour, I'm suddenly wondering what it might feel like to have his arms wrapped around me. _Stop it, Elizabeth. Don't let your mind wander so._ We stand in moonlight, with silver spilled across wood floors. "Lizzie, I'm in your debt."

"There's no debt," I say, little above a whisper. I'm too aware of the man, his physical presence, the cadence of his voice, to think of much else. But there are echoes in this room, of fires, debts, secrets.

The secret that says I want him to take my hand, just like he did in the dream. I _want_ …

And he does take my hand, reaching down to take my fingers with his, lifting my knuckles to his soft lips and pressing a kiss against them.

"Lizzie, I—"

"I have to go," I don't let him finish. I can't let him finish, suddenly coming back to myself. I shake off the spell that has settled over us both, only by slipping my hand out from his. The separation of flesh from flesh hurts, and I shiver on the feeling, but the danger of me staying in this room a moment longer is acute.

"Goodnight, sir," I say desperately, _finally,_ and leave before he has a chance to call me back.

For that man is a fire. _Red—red, red as any fire._ And if I'm not careful, I think he might burn me up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note:** As always, thanks so much for the faves/reviews! :)

 **Chapter Nine:**

The morning after the fire, I'm exhausted, having slept fitfully after returning to my chambers.

Near dawn, I finally rise from the twisted bedsheets and go to the cushioned bench beneath my bedroom window. Through winter-frosted glass, I watch the sun rise and try to clear my head. But my mind is addled and dazed. When I close my eyes, I see his face…and feel the softness of his lips pressed against my fingers.

And I can't shake it.

I might have passed the whole thing off as a dream but the smell of smoke lingers in my hair and on my nightgown. The sun rises and still it lingers.

I'm hesitant to go downstairs. I don't want to see him today. Red. _Reddington_ , I mean. Oh, but I do. The conflict that I feel over that man is twisting me up inside, with all my senses heightened from lack of sleep. And I have no idea what's causing it. I could blame an excess of adrenaline from the events of the fire, or the unsettled fear and anxiousness conjured by Lord Fitch's visit yesterday. But I'm not sure that's quite right…

I have an idea. Of course I do, that I might be…falling for my employer.

 _Don't be stupid, Elizabeth. One man shows you a little interest and you're his to command? Oh, if only Diane Fowler could see you now…_

I suppress these thoughts, as well as I've suppressed all serious inquiry into my past. Which means not particularly well. But well enough to dress and fix my hair and descend downstairs with as much decorum as anyone in my shoes might manage.

Mr. Kaplan notices me as I pass her office, wandering towards the kitchen in my haze of distraction. Her voice cuts through the haze easily, as she has a natural talent for dealing with distracted personalities, as evidenced by the years she's been in Raymond Reddington's employ. She says, "Miss Keen, is that you? Come here a minute, dearie."

I go where I'm summoned and greet her demurely, clasping my hands before me as I wait for her to continue.

"There was an accident in Mr. Reddington's quarters last night. A fire broke out in his bedchamber. Fortunately, he was able to subdue the flames," Mr. Kaplan relates the news in her customary no-nonsense manner.

I feign a little surprise as she tells me of the night's events, though not enough to convince myself. I wonder if I convince her. Given her neutral expression, I can't be sure.

She continues, grumbling to herself, "The room will need some repairs, of course, and the walls will have to be scrubbed clean of soot, floor to rafters. The smell of smoke is such a bitch to air out."

My eyebrows shoot up this time, in no faked surprise, as I'm taken aback by the sailor's cursing that falls off the housekeeper's sharp tongue so easily. But she gives me a wry half-grin that says she's never kept herself caged by the standard lexicon of an English housekeeper.

The half-grin fades quickly, as there's work to be done, and Mr. Kaplan sighs. "Anyway, if you could help Luli with some of the scrubbing later today, I would appreciate it," she delegates well, framing the statement as a request rather than a demand as a courtesy, as this goes beyond my duties as Agnès's governess.

"Of course," I agree quickly, willing to be of use, as always. But I gild my ignorance of the night's events a little more, just to be safe. I ask, "Was Mr. Reddington injured?"

"No," Mr. Kaplan answers. "And apparently it didn't dampen his spirits by any means. He was up at the crack of dawn, off to the Pratt's for God-knows-how-long."

"…the Pratts?" I wonder after a pause, having never heard the name before.

"Neighbors—about twenty miles west of here. Lady Madeline Pratt is the belle of the County," Mr. Kaplan replies flatly, obviously not impressed. I can tell by the way her eyes threaten to roll on the informal title. "She's been after Reddington for some time. And his vanity likes the attention. Oh, she's a clever woman, that one…loves money and nice things, and the Pratts are not nearly as well set up as they'd like their neighbors to believe they are. Honestly, I've always thought Madeline was a bit disingenuous. Too clever for her own good by half. I know he's amused by her, but I never thought Reddington would be charmed by the act. And maybe he isn't charmed yet…" She shrugs on the idea. "…but there's no denying that a brush with death can change a person's mind."

My heart is sinking again. And I know better. My God, I know better.

 _Don't be a fool. Don't make yourself ridiculous…_

"Oh…," I answer lamely, hoping my voice sounds steady and doesn't betray the inner turmoil I can't help but feel at the idea that those moments with Red last night where I _felt_ something were…must have been…just conjured fantasy.

I swallow. Hard.

"Is there anything else, Mr. Kaplan?" I ask.

"No, that's all, dearie," she waves me away, already scribbling in another one of her many ledgers. She says simply, "Thank you, Miss Keen."

* * *

I put Reddington out of my mind. But his sudden absence in the halls of Thornfield stings nonetheless.

It's as if my soul is being stretched thin and I don't understand the feeling. At Lowood I had grown used to girls coming and going—here today, gone tomorrow. It was best not to become too friendly or it hurt too much when you had to say goodbye. And so the Lowood girls, all of us, went out of our way not to become too close. We were instructed not to become friends, as friendship was not part of Diane Fowler's curriculum.

I had a friend once though, long before Lowood. Well, I think I did.

 _A fire, a locked door, a girl with blonde hair._

Sometimes I wonder if I made her up. The girl with blonde hair, I mean. Or maybe she's a memory of my younger self? But Uncle Sam insisted that my hair was always dark. And if it's just me, why do I see her so clearly, sitting beside me in the memory, knees brought up to her chest and crying?

Why do I see her in a prior memory, both of us, in satin dresses with white pinafores standing in a room…no, a church? With ceilings so high and stain-glassed windows, it had to be a church. And there were men talking in the doorway, heatedly discussing…something, in deep voices with Eastern accents. And a woman—a woman with blonde hair, same color as the other girl's—she was shouting, she was begging.

She was begging for her daughter.

 _My daughter will not be your sacrifice!_ _Nikogda!_

"Mademoiselle?" Agnès interrupts my slip into old musings, cluttered half-memories and all the rest. In my lap is a book of poems by Tennyson:

" _Out flew the web and floated wide  
the mirror crack'd from side to side  
'the curse is come upon me,' cried  
the Lady of Shalott._"

I've been staring at the same page for the better part of a quarter hour. Agnès must have noticed. She asks, in her delicate accent, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," I answer automatically, never pausing to consider the crux of the question. "I'm fine."

"Your face is white. Like you've seen a ghost," she frets.

"No ghosts," I shake my head. "I was just remembering something from a long time ago."

"Memories are like ghosts," Agnès counters, grinning. Her wild imagination likes the idea of ghosts in the corridors and on the stairs. Her grin turns mischievous, "Like the ghost that lives at Thornfield."

"We've discussed this, Agnès," I sigh, having had this conversation with her quite a few times since my arrival in these halls. Her French sensibilities have been allowed to run free for too long and it's been an uphill battle trying to rein them in. "There's no ghost at Thornfield."

"But it laughs in the dark and Sophie says—"

"It's just the wind whistling against the battlements and Sophie knows better than to encourage you in this," I answer, wondering again how the French nurse from Marseilles managed to cross the Channel. She's afraid of her own shadow, I swear.

I rise from where I'm sitting at the schoolroom table and retrieve a bible from the bookshelves on the opposite side of the room. My Lowood education has its uses, I suppose. I flip through the pages to Job, finding the verse I'm looking for with little trouble.

I place the book in front of Agnès and point to the verse.

"Read this," I instruct the little girl gently. "Aloud."

"As the cloud is consumed and va-vaneesh…," she struggles.

"Vanishes," I supply the word, before nodding for her to continue.

"As the cloud is consumed and…vanishes, so he that goes down to the grave shall come up _jamais._ "

 _Never,_ she says, in French.

 _Nikogda,_ I think, in word suddenly rushes into my head, uninvited, echoing the earlier memory.

"In English, Agnès," I insist, ignoring my impulse to fixate on the word. She sighs at my instruction but continues.

"…shall come up never more. He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him any more," she finishes with a wide smile, pleased at her efforts.

"There. What do you say to that?" I ask her.

"I think it says 'he' shall return _jamais_. It says nothing about 'she', Mademoiselle," my little student replies, shrugging innocently, far too clever for her own good.

* * *

A week goes by. And then another.

Reddington has not returned. Agnès bemoans the loss of her _meilleur ami_ so soon. She had hoped he would remain at Thornfield for an extended visit, as apparently this is not his customary habit. Mr. Kaplan tells me that despite the little girl's sad pronouncements, she should be grateful. The months Reddington has spent at Thornfield this time went far beyond the last four visits put together.

"But there's so little to keep him here. We're certainly starved for company out here," Mr. Kaplan continues, while she, Agnès and I take a little breakfast in the alcove off the kitchen. Mr. Kaplan is peeling an orange with her long, clean fingernails. Morning sunlight streams through a nearby window, illuminating the spray of citrus as she smoothly peels back the rind.

"Oh, don't be offended, Miss Keen," she mentions, catching sight of my expression, which despite myself, must betray some disappointment. "I'm sure he enjoys his chats with you but I mean proper company, you understand?"

"Of course," I answer, as I spread jam over Agnès's toast. Because what other acceptable answer is there?

Proper company. Good company. _You were born bad, Elizabeth Keen, and you will die bad._

The clock in the hall lightly chimes through the eight o'clock bell and one of the stewards walks through the alcove, depositing the morning post at Mr. Kaplan's elbow. The housekeeper is busy enough with her orange that she doesn't immediately glance down. But I do, as I do every day. As much as I hate myself for the weakness, I've been waiting for news of him for weeks.

And this time, finally, I'm rewarded. I see Reddington's scarlet seal peeking out amongst the missives. A letter? Mr. Kaplan had told us not to expect any communication so soon. It takes all my willpower not to reach out and bring it to the top of the pile and insist that she read it, whatever it is, aloud.

My willpower fails me completely when she turns to fix herself a second cup of tea. I'm fast and nimble, pulling the folded note out just far enough that she won't miss the familiar seal. Agnès notices my bizarre actions and tilts her head just slightly, giving me a curious glance. I shake my head once and set my expression, not meeting her gaze, as I don't want the child to read my thoughts, guilty as they may be.

"Ah, what does he want now?" Mr. Kaplan says as she turns back, finally noticing the post and noting the fully visible seal first. She plucks Reddington's note from the pile and breaks the seal, eyes scanning the contents quickly but giving nothing away.

"What does it say, _Monsieur_ Kaplan?" Bless her, Agnès asks the blunt question that I'm too afraid to whisper.

"It says he's coming back," Mr. Kaplan _hmm_ 's over the news, adding, "And he's bringing guests."

Guests or not, I struggle not to smile at the news that Reddington's returning. Bless her again—Agnès beams enough for both of us.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** Okay, so yeah, I definitely dropped off the face of the Earth with this fic. I _know_. And oh, the apologies I must beg from all of you. Here's what happened. Game of Thrones S8—that's what happened. I mean, what even was that?

For Dany fans, it was pretty much the worst thing to happen since the beginning of things (subverting tropes by making the girl go mad – mmhmm *heavy eye roll*). And for Jorah/Dany fans, well #stillwrecked #nevergonnabeoverit

Although on a purely angsty/I-love-tragedy level, that particular ship will be sailing in the canon Nightlands until the end of time...so, ya know, small favors :) Anyway, I'm in a fix it mood and that's where I've been diverting pretty much all of my writing energies lately.

Anyway, désolé, désolé! But please know that I have absolutely (cross my heart and hope to die) not abandoned this fic. And to prove my words are true, here's an update. Finally. My updates will likely still be sporadic for a while but this is me trying to get them back on a regular schedule :) 

**Chapter Ten:**

Red returns. And he brings an entire party with him.

Apparently the Pratts had visitors over Christmas and they've decided to stay for an extended holiday. And Reddington, sociable and eccentric as he is, has invited them all to Thornfield. For a week? A month? The time is uncertain.

"When these fashionable people get together, there's no telling how long they'll stay," Mr. Kaplan mutters as she gives Luli an updated list for the butcher. The kitchens at Thornfield are woefully understocked for a party of any size—and we now have the entire Pratt household and their assorted guests staying with us.

There are at least a dozen in the party but I know very few of them by name. Madeline and her mother, Lady Pratt, of course. They're impossible to miss as they carry themselves like ladies at court. I've met Aram Mojtabai, a friendly and inquisitive biologist who's known both the Pratts and Reddington for a score of years. He had introduced himself to me as soon as he entered the house, shaking hands with almost everyone—the servants included—in a familiar, congenial manner that couldn't help but warm my opinion of the man immediately. He's completely without guile, which is refreshing, as this house is filled with it.

And he seems quite taken with one of Madeline's friends, a dark-haired woman from London named "Samar" who I've noticed says very little and isn't forthcoming with personal details. I wonder if that's a choice.

After receiving the list from Mr. Kaplan, Luli bobs her head and immediately sets off for the butcher's. I'm sent to give Dembe more orders for candles and lamp oil before resuming my primary duties, which now mainly consist of keeping Agnès calm and out of sight, as she is in no mood for studies at present. Her fervent desire to join the party and take part in whatever activities they may be playing at has overwhelmed all else. The sight of so much silk and jewelry has turned her little head. She's fallen in love with Madeline Pratt after one glance.

I can't blame her. Lady Madeline is objectively beautiful—tall and elegant, with soft auburn hair and an easy manner. Her eyes sparkle with cunning, feminine mischief and her lips curl on a smile that embodies _l'attraction mystérieuse,_ which is something that a woman is either born with or…she is not.

I've never minded being plain. I've never minded wearing cotton instead of silk or being in service and forced to make a living with my hands. I will always be the woman who works over her needlework behind a screen, silent, alone, easily forgotten, instead of being the woman fawned over in the center of the room, receiving gifts of compliments and favors from her many admirers.

I don't know that I'd want it, even if I had a choice in the matter. But that doesn't mean I enjoy feeling the contrast so acutely, especially when so starkly drawn.

Especially here, in this house that I've grown to regard as my home, with Madeline Pratt as the undisputed belle of the ball, her tinkling laughter mixing with Reddington's lower timbre as they speak of horses and riding and foreign places they've both visited and old jokes they've shared for years. I hear it all, forced to play audience to their revelry, and suddenly realize something that my distracted mind had forgotten in these last, blissful months at Thornfield—this is not my world.

This is not my home. Not really.

This is Reddington's world. This is Madeline's Pratt's world. This is a world of wealth and privilege, neither of which are things I will ever possess. And I…I'm just the governess, pushed away in a quiet corner, charged with keeping the child quiet and her excitement tempered to an acceptable level, so as not to distress or annoy the silk-clad ladies.

 _This is not your home, Elizabeth. You have no home._

My needle pierces the fabric in my hands industriously, like a knife through warm butter. My hand leads the thread down and then draws it up again, keeping the stitches neat and tight. The motion is rhythmic and nearly allows me to forget my surroundings.

Even if Agnès will not.

"Oh, Mademoiselle Keen, but she is so _belle_ ," Agnès insists, pressing nearer to me, leaning up to whisper the words at my ear. We sit perched together on the sofa behind the screen in the drawing room. She fidgets but knows she must remain still if she's going to be allowed to stay in the room with the adults. My hands remain busy at my needlework, my head bent over the silver and green threads, trying not to steal any more glances at Reddington.

Twice, I've looked up and twice, I've been caught in the act. By _him._ For he's already turned my way both times and when my eyes flicker up, they fall into his instantly.

We haven't spoken since he's been back. He hasn't sought me out, having been fully occupied by his guests. His expression is impassable, as always, not giving himself away. Although his mood seems lighter than it's been in weeks. He's so easily charmed by Madeline Pratt, as Mr. Kaplan had mentioned, it's impossible to miss the difference. He's free with his smiles when around her, whereas I find his smile lessens and nearly bleeds away when he turns that gaze on me.

Is he upset by my presence here? He shouldn't be. He's the one that demanded I be here, sending word through Mr. Kaplan that Agnès should be allowed to sit in the drawing room with the others this evening and that I was to accompany her.

"He says it's his 'particular wish'," Mr. Kaplan had related, with a monotone delivery that said she was overworked, overwhelmed and not particularly interested in his more eccentric requests at present.

But I do as he asks. I dress Agnès appropriately, without the frills and extra violet-colored petticoats that she begs me to let her wear. I keep her well-behaved, within sight of the ladies and lords, without disturbing them.

I listen to their conversations silently and say nothing when I hear one of Madeline's cousins hiss to her aunt with a stage-whisper, "Isn't that the little French girl over there? Mr. Reddington's ward, I mean? Well, isn't she a precious little thing."

Lady Pratt turns our way, her eyes narrowed and her mouth drawn in a grim line. When she was younger, I imagine her natural expression was more akin to Madeline's but time will twist a fixed smirk into a decided frown with little trouble. And Lady Pratt seems to have no love lost on me, for whatever reason. I've only crossed paths with her once in the short while the visitors have been at Thornfield and even then, we exchanged no words, but the haughty lift of her chin and the cold glint in her eyes spoke her feelings well enough.

"Come here, child," Lady Pratt beckons Agnès over with a sharp, decisive flick of her forefinger. She's been lady of her house for more years than I've been alive. She's used to having her orders obeyed, quickly and without question. Agnès's eyes grow wide with anticipation and she looks to me for permission.

"Do as she asks, Agnès," I nod. The French girl doesn't have to be told twice, bounding off the sofa to twirl and dance her way over to the ladies across the room. She curtsies in a somewhat dramatic manner, which would be more appropriate on a theater stage than in an English drawing room.

But she's excited and I can't help but smile at her excitement, though the smile is small and fleeting, bit back quickly, as my ears register the next words out of Lady Pratt's mouth.

"This is what you get when you employ a governess, Letitia," Lady Pratt sighs. "Look at the utter lack of reserve. There's no discipline in the child whatsoever."

"Oh, but she's so pretty, Aunt. What's the harm in a little unbridled energy?" Madeline's cousin, Letitia, tittered on, allowing, "And she's French, so that may account for some of it."

"A good governess should be able to correct these flaws of disposition," Lady Pratt said firmly, her gaze coming to rest on me. I find myself oddly trapped by that glance and I hate that I can't look away from it. It makes me feel weak and small. She continues, "Unless she's slothful or finds herself easily distracted, of course. Falling in love with a tutor or making eyes at the master—the tale is so classic that it's become tiresome."

Madeline and Reddington have been engaged in their own discussion by the fireplace but Lady Pratt's words have caught Reddington's attention fully. There's no smile on his face now but I still can't read his features. Madeline is watching him too, while listening to her mother, her smirk curling a little higher.

"Our governesses were always so terribly distracted," Madeline joins her mother's conversation with a sly smile. "Do you remember the last one, Mama? She was so in love with Mr. Clyde, the music tutor—it was obvious to anyone with eyes. Always following him around, hoping he'd give her the time of day. I always felt _so_ embarrassed for her."

She laughs so lightly, like the bubbles in a champagne glass, and I find her casting a casual glance my way, tipping her head ever so slightly and pursing those rose-colored lips in a telling way. She knows I've heard her mother's words and her own. Is she looking for some sort of reaction? And what has Reddington told her? Why is this coming up?

I finally manage to turn my attention back to my needlework and take a few steady breaths to keep from saying anything stupid. My fingers hold the fabric in a vice-grip and I feel heat on my face. The women across the room move on to other subjects, Letitia's admiration of Agnès's frock and her easy forgiveness of the girl's animated nature smoothing over the rest.

I try to return to the threads. I try to keep my mind clear and uncluttered with nonsense, remembering how many times I was forced to swallow pride and anger at Lowood and just let it pass. I've done it a thousand times before but I suddenly feel like I'm drowning. Like I'm drowning in a vast and unforgiving ocean and there's not a dry speck of land for a hundred leagues.

The feeling overwhelms me. I can't stand it anymore and leave the room. I'll ask Luli or Mr. Kaplan to fetch Agnès when it's time for her to retire to bed. But I can't stay in that room a moment later, setting aside my needlework with as much calm as I'm able, and rising.

I'm halfway up the east wing stairs and have already reached the second floor landing, when I hear a voice call me back, "Lizzie?"

I slow my steps, almost tempted to keep going. He knows his guests better than I. If he knew how they would act, why did he force me to take part in that charade? I run my fingers along the carved wood on the banister, nervously, undecidedly, before finally turning around.

"Yes, sir?" I ask, very demurely, not meeting his gaze. My hands come together, my thumb absently seeking out the scar on my wrist.

"Why did you leave the drawing room?" he wonders, though he knows. He heard Lady Pratt's comments, he saw Madeline's stare. He must know. And I don't like when he pretends he doesn't.

"I'm tired, sir," I answer in a small voice, nearly truthfully. I feel exhausted.

"And a little depressed…," this isn't a question. He just states it plainly, his expression turning soft and a little sad himself. I can't tell if it's pity in his eyes or something else and I'm still unwilling to meet his gaze fully enough to find out.

"No, I'm not depressed," I shake my head, trying to convince both of us. But I'm unsuccessful and feel faithless tears prick at the sides of my eyes. Why? I couldn't tell you why. Not exactly. I'd suffered far worse offense and dismissal under Aunt Keen and Diane Fowler. Lady Pratt's words were just words. I knew better than to listen to them.

But still, the tears threatened to spill onto my cheeks. And such overwhelming loneliness threatened to swallow me whole, even with another person standing a few feet away. Even with Red standing right there, eyes searching mine for the source of my distress.

I couldn't explain it to him, even if I wanted to. Sitting in that drawing room, hearing those women say those things, as if I weren't in the room with them, as if I might as well just fade away into the wallpaper and disappear…I couldn't do it. I can't do it. I feel ready to flee again but my feet refuse to move.

"Come," Reddington climbs the stairs in two steps and pulls me over to the bench beneath the window. He says in a soft, gentle voice, utterly devoid of teasing now, "Sit with me for a minute."

His hand takes my arm before I can protest and I find myself sliding down onto the bench beside him, so close our shoulders graze against each other, before I can tell myself otherwise.

"I haven't seen you since I've been back," he mutters, as if he's upset by the fact. But it's not my fault. He should know that better than anyone. He continues, "What have you been doing while I've been away?"

I shrug, too busy trying to keep those stupid tears in check. I manage, "Teaching Agnès. She's learned her twelve times tables…finally."

"Good," he grins on that. "She'll be able to count the items in her trousseau up to 144."

I try to smile at the simple joke. I do try, but he's right. I _am_ depressed. And I don't even know why. Well…that's not completely true. It's just hard to put into words. I've known the hollow feeling of loneliness. I've lived with it all my life. It never bothered me before I came to Thornfield. And oh, I don't know—I thought this was a place I might belong. I thought it might be _home_. And now I'm not so sure.

All complicated by the fact that Raymond Reddington is sitting beside me.

And, just as he had in that dream I had the night of the fire, he suddenly but deliberately takes my hand, his own hand briefly trailing up along the inside of my thigh before claiming it. He interlaces his fingers through mine as if we've done this a hundred times before. He keeps my hand captive as we sit together for a long moment, in gentle silence.

His presence is a strange sort of comfort, as it simultaneously serves as the source of my distress and the balm for it.

He doesn't say anything more and I'm glad. Because I don't know that I can hold the tears back if I try speaking again. And still we linger…

"Raymond?" Mr. Kaplan's voice echoes from below.

"Up here, Kate," he answers and soon enough we see her steel-grey head appear on the stairs. As she comes into view, I expect him to pull his hand away from mine but he doesn't. He keeps it close.

Kate Kaplan's eyes narrow slightly, finding us there together, him comforting me, with our hands clasped together. What must she think? But she doesn't say anything about it as she has other news that apparently cannot wait.

"Jacob Phelps is here, Raymond," she says bluntly. "I told him that you had guests and that he wasn't welcome in this house but he says he won't be going until he's spoken with you."

At the name, Red's expression turns dark and his grip tightens around mine, almost as a reflex. The melancholy sadness in my heart suddenly simmers away, replaced by something far worse…something that feels a lot like fear.


End file.
